


Broken Legacies

by maxvandenburgs



Category: Panic! at the Disco, brendon urie - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Feuding Families, New York City, Office Romance, Romeo & Juliet AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-07-03 22:43:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15828429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxvandenburgs/pseuds/maxvandenburgs
Summary: Due to his father’s rapidly declining health, Brendon Urie is the newly appointed CEO of family-led newspaper Urie & Son, one of the most popular tabloids in the entire United States.When rival paper, The Ambrose Tribunal, cunningly comes up with a plan to sneak one of their own under with the competition, Brendon is none the wiser. Because who would suspect that the pretty little intern with the kind eyes could be a part of a scheme much greater and graver than meets the eye?





	1. An Age Old Rivalry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! 
> 
> So, this is my brand new Brendon fanfiction and honestly I’m beyond excited to get this started. It’s been a growing idea in my brain for a few weeks now, so I really hope you’ll join me on this ride. I feel like it’s going to be a good one...
> 
> So without further ado, let’s begin, shall we? 
> 
> All my love,  
> Olivia

“Sorry... you’re making me do _what_?”

I’m sat in my father’s living room, with rain rattling against the french veranda doors and Milo curled up at my feet, panting. The fire spits and crackles in the corner and every time it’s a little too loud, he startles himself awake, his collar jingling.

My dad sighs as he pours himself a glass of scotch. “It’s only temporary, my love,” he says. “Besides, what else are you doing with your time now? You’re just going to sit around here all day, re-reading books that you’ve already got memorised? Hmm?” He’s smirking, which means he wants me to smile. He wants me to be okay with this.

I hate that he has to remind me that college is now over - for good. As he so often tells me, it’s now time to “take off the rose-tinted glasses and live in the real world” and naturally, he won’t entertain any career path other than entering the family business. Business, however, may perhaps be a bit of an understatement. I accepted that was my fate long ago, but I certainly never expected him to want me to do this.

“Why me?” I ask incredulously. “Why can’t you get one of your little brown-nosing minions to do this? If I get caught, I’ll be over.”

“No, Meredith,” he insists, “ _I’ll_ be over. But you’re not gonna get caught so we don’t have to worry about that.”

I fold my arms across my chest as he smugly takes a sip of his drink and I wonder how long he’s had this planned for. Since college ended? Before that?

“What if I refuse?” I counter, feeling incredibly bold, because I never answer back to my father, but now feels like the right time to finally start defying some lifelong rules that I’ve always obeyed.

“You wouldn’t,” he says plainly, and there’s something so powerful about the way he speaks. He’s right. I wouldn’t.

“Alright then,” I try again, “what if somebody recognises me? You’re hardly Mr Nobody.”

Again, he smiles, and I know he has a sly answer prepared for this too.

“Why do you think I always kept you and your brother out of the public eye? Anonymity, my dear girl - so we can do things like this later on in life. I wouldn’t have anybody else doing this for me because I don’t trust anybody else the way that I trust my own flesh and blood.”

I sigh deeply and reach down to stroke Milo’s fur to calm my nerves. “I don’t even know that I’ll get the position,” I remind him.

“You’ll get the position.”

I don’t think I want to know how he’s so confident when saying that. I don’t want to think about who he’s paid off to make sure I secure this job. This is all so, so wrong.

“When’s my interview?” I ask him, because he’s made it plainly clear that I don’t have a choice in all of this.

“Tomorrow,” he tells me. Fuck. Tomorrow.

I don’t sleep very well that night. Naturally, I can’t stop worrying about what the morning will bring. I still can’t quite believe that he wants me to go through with this. I think about how casually he explained his idea to me, how easily it rolled off his tongue, like he had no moral compass at all.

I suppose, in theory, it’s a little stroke of genius, and so incredibly cunning, but I just feel so dirty going through with it. I know what he’s going to expect of me when I’m there and I don’t like it one bit. I don’t understand why he can’t be satisfied with the success he’s already had, but if I had to sum my father up in one general statement, it would be that he has never been truly satisfied in his life.

As a child, I grew up in mail rooms and journalist’s offices. I roamed the endless corridors of the gigantic tower block in Midtown Manhattan like they were my palace. I suppose, in a lot of ways, they were. The Ambrose Tribunal was founded by my great-great-great grandfather in the mid 1800s and with a cocktail of hard work, perseverance and sheer luck, it quickly established itself as the best-selling newspaper in the entire United States. And I guess, my family always felt a strong sense of ownership over it, mainly owing to the fact that our surname was slap bang in the middle of its title. Not once has it ever been passed out of the family, my many grandfathers from the generations previous taking over as time went on, until it was handed to my dad when his own father died a few years ago. It was a legacy in its own right, even to this day, and sometimes I genuinely wonder, if asked, whether my dad would place his beloved newspaper above my brother and I.

Of course, I spent most of my childhood and adolescence outside of New York, as any girl from old money would, within the glorious, picturesque walls of boarding school. All-girls, naturally. Coming home for the holidays never felt like coming home because I spent such little time with my parents. I felt like a stranger in my own house sometimes. It seemed like my mother had a better relationship with the maids than she did with me. Whenever that cool autumn breeze crept around again, I was grateful, and I’d smile the entire car journey long until I was back in my familiar dorm surrounded by my eclectic, funny, wonderful friends. It was the most perfect bubble that a girl could grow up in. I was sheltered beyond belief. I get that my parents orchestrated my entire youth from a place of love and care, but what I don’t think they truly understood was how hard I would plummet into the concrete the moment that that bubble burst.

It hadn’t felt like it at the very beginning, but college had been my saviour. I remember graduating high school feeling so terribly lost. Girls that had been there for me since we were practically babies were now scattering themselves across the country. Some went to Harvard, some to Yale, and here I was, staying in New York, headed to Columbia alone. The first few weeks were difficult, as they are for everybody, but once I found my place, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I’d made the right decision in choosing not to follow the crowd. Without sounding incredibly self-righteous, with a father like mine, I could have got into any university I wanted - but my heart was drawn to Columbia from the moment I set foot in the place on the day of my tour. It wasn’t as prestigious as Yale or Harvard, but it felt like home, and that was all that mattered to me.

My father had encouraged me to study something that I enjoyed at university, something that challenged me and made me happy, because it was already decided that once I graduated, I’d be working for the paper in some capacity. I just had to go to college because that’s what everybody did in my family. So I went, and I studied literature, because I could read for days and not get bored of it, and it was the best four years of my entire life. The people that I met and the memories that I made truly made me realise that adults don’t call your college years the ‘golden days’ for no reason. That’s one thing upon which I can agree that they are absolutely right.

My last summer had been spent wondering about the future, and how it would all turn out. It was weird not having to go through the entire process of applying for graduate jobs like all of my friends. Knowing that I was guaranteed a position with a company that I knew people would kill to work for felt like a bit of a cop-out. I didn’t feel worthy. Why should I be given a wonderful opportunity like this when somebody who has worked their entire life for it has to start on the bottom rung of the ladder? I suppose it’ll never make sense to me, and I’ll never be fully comfortable with the privilege I’ve so luckily been afforded, but I can use it, at least, to try and make the world a better place.

Going to work undercover at Urie & Son does not feel like I’m making the world a better place. It feels like a betrayal, even if they are our ultimate rivals. A paper with a readership that grows every single day is always something to be wary of, no matter where they’re from, but Urie & Son have been Ambrose’s sworn enemies since time began. To this day, I’m not really sure of the feud’s origin, and I don’t think my dad knows either. It’s just always been there - unspoken - like Romeo & Juliet. The fact that he even wants me within five miles of their building baffles me, but understanding his motives, it makes perfect sense. I never fancied myself a spy. I didn’t think I’d ever be any good at it.

Stepping out of the car and staring up at a skyscraper that isn’t the Tribunal’s headquarters feels so strange yet oddly liberating. It feels a little surreal that I am able to enter the building, give my name, with false surname to boot and then make it through an entire job interview without anybody recognising me. Dad was right. Anonymity is everything. People know I exist - they know my father has two children - but unless they were family or close friends, they wouldn’t be able to pick us out of a lineup. Now I understand why he ensured we kept our social media profiles so guarded. It’s all starting to make sense.

Post interview, I grab a coffee and take the subway home. I’m actually surprised at how relaxed I was and then I realised that I’d spent my entire life growing up in the paper business and knew it inside out. Of course that interview was going to be a walk in the park.

For some people, getting a call from Urie & Son to say they’ve been offered an internship could be the best moment of their life. For me, it’s casual. I’m sat on the couch watching re-runs of Friends in my pyjamas whilst crunching on raw carrot sticks. The job offer was expected, so why would I be surprised?

I wish I had the courage to speak up to my father and tell him just how uncomfortable this entire situation made me feel. I’d never understood the whole rivalry between papers. Why couldn’t we just co-exist? Why did there have to be this constant silent hatred of one another? Why, whenever I walked into bars on the Upper East Side, did I feel sad to hear workers from Urie & Son chatting shit about people from Ambrose that they didn’t even _know_? Why did taking this job terrify me so much? So many questions, and absolutely no answers.

I wake up the morning of my first day aching from head to toe. I know that I barely slept. I can feel the fatigue running through my bones, dull and dark. When my alarm goes off, it’s so tempting to just switch it off, roll over, and sleep for another six hours.

Of course, I don’t. I wouldn’t dare. I get up, I fix myself some breakfast and I make myself look presentable. After a quick tidy-up of my apartment, I head out the door, hailing a taxi, which are very easy to come by in this neighbourhood, thank goodness, and I give the driver the address of Urie & Son. Even that feels odd coming off of my tongue.

The building looms over me like an omen when I step out of the cab. I stare up at it again, my heart now in my throat. Am I really about to do this? There’s nothing I want to do more right now than turn around, get straight back in that taxi and head home, but when I do look over my shoulder, I see that my ride has already gone. New York doesn’t stop for anyone.

I shouldn’t be afraid to step into that skyscraper’s lobby. If I squint, it isn’t that different to our one. Maybe I can just pretend. I’ll just make believe that I’m working for Dad, and then maybe it won’t all feel so scary. It won’t all feel so wrong.

I approach the front desk with a smile. I’m here to play a role, after all. I’ll be damned if I don’t do my utmost hardest to give an Oscar-worthy performance. The receptionist smiles back at me.

“What can I help you with?” she asks in that forced, chipper tone of greeting that has probably been drilled into her ever since she started working here.

“I’m Meredith Bennett,” I lie, but the name falls so effortlessly off my tongue. “I’m a new intern here. It’s my first day.”

 

 

 

 


	2. Coffeegate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, you lovely lot!
> 
> Here you go. Chapter Two - which includes your introduction to Brendon. I hope that you love it. I’m trying to make these chapters quite long and in depth so bear with me on this one. I want to make sure the content I am giving you is quality writing, because it’s what you all deserve. 
> 
> Let me know what you think! 
> 
> Lots of love,  
> Olivia

I’m allocated a desk on the fifteenth floor, and my years of experience have taught me that that’s pretty damn impressive for a brand new intern. They must have been pleased with how I interviewed. I can’t help but feel a little smug about it.

My anxiety is grateful, however, that they don’t just throw me in at the deep end and instead, I spend the first hour and a half touring the building with a young woman who introduces herself to me as Jane. She’s got a smiley disposition and friendly eyes and she’s perhaps five years my senior. As we’re casually strolling around Sports Journalism, I ask her how long she’s worked at Urie & Son.

“Since I graduated college,” she tells me. “So I’ve been here, hmm let’s see... almost six years now.” She laughs and shakes her head. “That’s mad. How time flies!”

I smile back politely. “Do you enjoy it?” I ask. Being on the opposing side my entire life, I’ve heard some horror stories - but I have always wondered how many of them are biased, fabricated lies.

“I love it,” Jane beams, and I can tell from the light in her eyes that she’s not joking.

She goes on, and I hang on her every word. Who knows? It could be useful to me further on down the line.

“Everybody gets along so well here,” she tells me. “And this last year has been so refreshing, having a new boss and everything.”

Ah yes, I think to myself, I remember now. Nathaniel Urie had recently been diagnosed with undisclosed health conditions which had forced him to step down as CEO and hand the reigns over to his son, Brendon. I’d definitely heard many a rumour about him. He was in his late twenties and apparently an absolute nightmare to work with. He was egotistical and arrogant and a total party animal. A bachelor, shall we say, with different designer suits on his back every day and different women in his bed every night.

But the way that Jane starts waxing lyrical about him makes me seriously wonder where all the stories that I’d heard had originated.

“He’s injected some life back into the paper,” she says. “He’s got such a refreshing outlook on everything, you know? And he really wants to get involved. He visits all of the departments and checks in with them to see how they’re doing.”

I watch the way that this woman talks about her boss and I smile, folding my arms across my chest. If he’s really as wonderful as she claims he is, maybe working here won’t be so disastrous after all.

After we’ve finished up our tour, Jane leaves me and I return to my desk. Already, my inbox is bombarded with emails. I’ve been placed in charge of eyewitness accounts, so I spend the next hour or so sifting through correspondents from members of the public who have witnessed everything from murders in broad daylight to kittens being saved from burning buildings - and every single one believes their story is deserving of making the paper. I’m coming to the end of one particularly bizarre story that’s quite clearly from some teenager who’s stoned out of his mind, because nothing that he’s typed makes any sense, when two hands smack themselves onto my desk, palms face down.

I look up to see a man around my age looking down at me with panicked eyes. He’s got such a baby face and blonde curly hair. His shirt collar looks so tight that I’m concerned it’s cutting off his circulation and I note a few stray cat hairs upon his navy suit jacket.

“Meredith, right?” he asks me.

“Yeah, that’s me. I-”

He doesn’t let me finish. “Can you do me the biggest favour? Please?”

I nod. “Sure,” I tell him, because he quite obviously needs my help. “What’s going on?”

“So every morning, I have to do the coffee round for all the executives because they say I have a great memory and I always get their orders spot on and I don’t mess around - I just head straight to Starbucks and then come back and their coffee is still hot when I deliver it to them and I-”

He’s talking at the speed of light. It’s way too early in the morning for this, so I place my hands out in front of me.

“Stop!” I tell him. “Slow down. What do you need?”

He sighs and regulates his breathing. Thank God. “Well, like, I have this article that I’m working on that’s due in a few hours and I’m nowhere near done with it. I was wondering, since it’s your first day and all and you haven’t got that much to do, if I give you the list, can you go and get the coffees?”

I can’t help but laugh a little. This guy’s sweet. His anxiety over a few drinks of Starbucks is rather endearing. “Sure I can,” I say to him with a smile. “I’d love to.”

“Thank you,” he says with a deep sigh of relief. “Thank you so much. I’ll- I’ll be right back!”

I chuckle as he rushes off and returns a few moments later with a piece of paper, several different types of coffee scrawled across it, and the floors upon which I can find the recipient’s offices printed beside each order. I tug my coat off of the back of my chair and take the list from him.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he beams. I can’t help but smile back. His energy is sort of infectious. As he begins to walk away, he stops himself. “Oh!” he says as if he’s suddenly forgotten something. “I’m Toby by the way. It’s good to have you on the team, Meredith!”

As I’m taking the elevator down to the ground floor, his words echo in my head. Is it honestly good to have me on the team? Would he say that if he knew? Well, no, of course he wouldn’t, I think to myself, and that simultaneously makes my chest ache with guilt and my head spin with power.

This is New York, so there’s a Starbucks everywhere you turn and it only takes me a couple of minutes to find the closest one. Waiting for the coffees is what takes the most time, but fifteen minutes later, I’m on my way back to work and I make sure to take in the entire city as I go. Save for time that I spent at school, I’ve lived in New York City my entire life and yet, it never ceases to amaze me. It’s so full of interesting faces. Many a time during college, when I was feeling uninspired, I would sit upon the steps in Times Square and simply people-watch for hours. I would hold onto snippets of conversations, or I’d take mental snapshots of interesting outfits and maybe, if I was feeling creative enough, I’d somehow drop them into a story. Because nothing in this life is truly fiction. We always draw upon experiences that we’ve had when creating art, sometimes without even realising it. The world is too full of inspiration for us to just ignore it.

Two full cardboard coffee holders in one hand, I check down the list in the other. Floor by floor, I do the rounds, and of course, get asked by everybody that I hand a cup to, “where’s Toby? And who are you?”

By the fifth person, I’m a bit bored of explaining the situation, but I do so regardless. Who knew delivering coffee could be so exhausting? Riding the elevator for what feels like the seventeenth time that day, I arrive on Floor 37 - my last drop off. It’s three storeys from the top so I know that there’s some very important people working up here, but I keep my cool. No big shots really intimidate me, not when my father is CEO of a company of equal calibre.

Everything is so much more spacious and bright up here. It feels like a breath of fresh air. Now I understand why in companies like this, everybody is so eager to reach the top.

As I’m walking down the corridor, a coffee cup in each hand, I hear the sad little wail of a child, and sure enough, a young mother rounds the corner with a small girl, no older than three, sobbing painfully. My heart immediately drops like a stone. It could be nothing. It could just be a typical childish tantrum, but it still hurts me to see any little one cry. Her mother is trying to talk to someone from the firm as they walk, but her hand is being tugged on persistently. I can tell that it’s a difficult situation for her, so as they draw closer to me, I crouch down. The mother and her daughter stop, and the little girl fixes her attention on me, as opposed to her mom, leaving the woman and the firm’s executive to chat.

“Hey,” I say sweetly. The little girl stops sniffling. Her eyes are so sad. “What’s the matter? You don’t need to cry.”

She stays very quiet, but she seems to be engaged with the conversation. I continue.

“Have you looked out of the window?” I ask her. “Have you seen how high up we are? You can see the whole city from up here! Look!”

I point out of the window that’s just behind her and she presses her little hands to the glass and her eyes widen in childlike wonder. “Wow,” she whispers in a sweet little voice. I can’t help but beam.

“Cool, huh?” I laugh. She looks back at me and she smiles. My work here is done.

I stand back up and pick up my coffees and I take one step and smack straight into someone. The plastic lids of the coffee cups pop off. Hot, dark liquid spills all down their front.

“Oh my God!” I gasp instinctively. I can feel the eyes of everybody in sight burning into me, but nobody intervenes. “I am so, so sorry, I-”

I look up to address the person directly, the person that I’ve just drowned in coffee, and I feel like dying right then and there on the spot. There’s no way this is happening.

Staring back at me is none other than Mr Brendon Urie, CEO of the entire newspaper. Oh, this is just brilliant. This is fucking fantastic.

“I...” I begin, but he places one hand up and closes his eyes. My God, the power that he has over me is sensational. I shouldn’t feel so intimidated. But I am.

“Don’t bother,” he says, sounding incredibly exasperated. I shrink back, feeling like I’m half my actual size. “I take it one of those was for me?”

It wasn’t, but I don’t tell him that.

“You don’t have to look so scared,” he chuckles, and it has a sort of cocky edge to it that I’m not a fan of. “I’m not gonna bite you.”

I diffuse the situation but changing the subject. “Is there, um, anything I can do? I could go and get you a towel o-or something or um, I could... I could, uh...” I’m losing my train of thought. The way he looks at me is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. It’s a rare combination of anger, bitterness and amusement. It’s making forming sentences rather difficult.

“I’ll tell you what you can do,” he says to me. “First of all, you can go and get me a new cup of coffee and second,” he reaches into the inside pocket of his sodden jacket and produces a small business card, handing it to me, “you can run yourself down to my tailor and pick me up a new suit. Got that, sweetheart?”

I bite my tongue hard and narrow my eyes a little. Damn. No “it’s okay, I know it was an accident!” No “don’t sweat it, I’ll sort myself out.” What an ass. But he’s an ass who, ultimately, is in charge of my job here, so I smile, and I let it go.

“Anything else?” I offer with just a slight edge to it. I wonder if he’ll pick it up.

“No,” he says. “No, that’ll be all. If you’ll excuse me.”

He buttons up his wet suit jacket and walks by me so casually, so effortlessly, his aura of arrogance travelling with him. I’m left standing there, blood boiling with embarrassment, but also a certain kind of humour as I watch him leave. Everything that Jane said earlier on was utter bullshit. He’s just another egotistical white man with a God complex. He’s everything that I hate about this messy corporate industry.

Nonetheless, I go and get him a new suit. I take a cab to the tailor, which is all the way on the other side of town. I explain who I’ve been sent by, and I’m handed an expensive black three-piece suit by a man with an amused grin across his face. It confuses me until he says, “coffee girl, right?” Jesus. He told his fucking tailor? I manage a forced laugh, fold the suit over my arm, and then I’m gone.

Once I’m back at work, I hitch a ride up to Floor 40, and I approach the front desk. Naturally, the only office up here is his. His secretary stares at me. She’s pretty, perhaps mid forties. I wonder if she’s a hand-me-down from his father. She’s not very smiley. I wonder if that’s her natural disposition or if it’s because she’s been told about Coffeegate and she’s just taken a severe disliking to me already.

“He’s in his office,” she tells me. “He wants you in there yourself.”

I hear her mutter something underneath her breath as I walk in the direction of the nearest door, which I can only presume is the right one. Gently, I push it open.

He’s sat at his desk, facing away from me, staring out of the window at the city. I cough to make my presence known and he spins around in his chair. He’s changed into a new shirt and trousers. I wonder, if he had these all along, why did he need the suit? But I keep my mouth shut.

He sees the suit bag in my hands and beckons me closer. “And the coffee?” he asks.

“Oh shit!” I exclaim without thinking. I knew there was something I’d forgotten.

He laughs a little and shakes his head. Tapping his fingers against the desk, he stares at me. I can’t help but stare back, like there’s some sort of magnetic field drawing my eyes to his.

“You’re new, aren’t you?” he smiles, but it’s not a warm, genuine smile. It’s laced together with an impossibly large ego.

“I started all of five hours ago,” I reply sarcastically. I’m not really sure that this is the best time to be using sarcasm but I can’t help it. He pissed me off earlier. I can’t pretend that I worship him.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“Meredith,” I say.

He widens his eyes and places his palm in the air, as if to say, ‘and?’ Instead, he actually says, “Meredith what?” And I tell him.

“Meredith Bennett.”

He muses over that and purses his lips, like he’s tasting my name inside of his mouth. “Well, Miss Bennett,” he begins, “I wouldn’t say that we’re off to the best start here, would you?”

The way he makes me feel so small is intimidating. “No,” I answer. “No, I suppose we’re not.”

“As long as you promise not to throw hot coffee over me again, I’m willing to put it behind us. Does that sound agreeable to you?”

God, I think to myself. He is such a _dick_. “Yeah,” I say quickly. “Yeah, that sounds great.” I can’t get out of here fast enough.

“Great,” he smiles. I laugh a little and shake my head. It’s the first day and I’m already so done with his bullshit. Everything I heard back at the Tribunal was true. I head for the door. I don’t want to stay in here another minute.

“Oh! And Meredith?” he pipes up as my hand brushes the handle. I stop. Politely, I turn to face him.

“Mmm?”

“I take my coffee black. No sugar. Chop chop.”

I can’t quite believe the way that he’s speaking to me but I don’t think I have much of a say in the matter. Leaving the room, all I can see is red. If I knew any better, I’d head back down to my desk, I’d pack up my things and I’d be out of here. But I don’t know any better and annoyingly enough, that bizarre magnetic pull is still there, tugging inside of my chest, so I head down to the kitchen and I make him a coffee. Black. No sugar. Just the way he likes it.


	3. A Shift In His Laughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello, you wonderful people. you.
> 
> Here’s Chapter Three! I have the next couple of days off work, so my aim is to post a chapter a day whilst I have the time to write, but I am the BIGGEST procrastinator so that may not go to plan and I also don’t want to rush anything or write just for the sake of it. Like I said, I want this fic to be as good as I can possibly make it.
> 
> I hope you like this one. Please leave me comments and kudos! It helps to get my fic out there and hopefully, I gain new readers from it too! Remember you can leave kudos even without signing in! 
> 
> Lots of love,  
> Olivia

I’ve always been somebody who acclimatises myself to new situations rather quickly, so by day three, I’m pretty much completely settled in. I’ve gotten to know most of the people who work on my floor. The girl who occupies the desk beside mine is fast becoming one of my closest friends in this place. Her name is Amanda and she’s chatty and funny and wants to know everything about me. I know that it’s friendly, but this isn’t the sort of place where I can allow myself to become too comfortable - so I either tell her the bare minimum or I lie to her.

Amanda’s the same age as me. She’s only been working for Urie & Son for six months but she makes it no secret that she wants to be here forever. “I worked my ass off to get into this place,” she tells me one day in my second week as we’re sitting down to lunch in a quaint café a couple of blocks away. I don’t doubt her for a second. Yes, she likes to talk, but she’s very clearly one of the hardest workers that I know here.

By the end of my second week, I feel like part of the furniture. I suppose Jane wasn’t entirely wrong when she said on my first day that everybody gets along so well. This kind of camaraderie is something that I’ve never come across at the Tribunal, but I guess I was never there long enough. I’d only really visit occasionally during the summer. I never worked there - never experienced that place the way that I am now experiencing Urie & Son.

Thankfully, I have no more awkward run-ins with His Royal Highness. He occasionally comes down to our floor, perhaps twice a week, but he doesn’t chat with us interns. Whenever he walks by, I feel my entire body tense up, as if I so much as breathe in his direction, he’ll look at me in the same condescending, cocky fashion that he used on my first day here. I don’t know why I feel so affected by him. He’s just a man. He’s not richer than I am and objectively, he’s no more powerful than I am - except that he is, in this situation, because I can’t ever tell him the truth - which sucks, because boy I’d love to wipe that smug little grin off of his face.

Every night at 5 o’clock, it’s customary to go out for a couple of drinks before heading home, but especially on Fridays, so at the end of that second week, as I’m packing up my things, Amanda catches me by the arm.

“Uh uh,” she giggles, “you’re not going anywhere, missy. Come on. We’re going out.”

I’m absolutely exhausted and would love nothing more than to crawl into bed right now, in cosy pyjamas, and continue with my reread of War & Peace but the idea of a glass of wine to relax me is highly tempting right now.

“Fine,” I surrender with a sigh, tugging on my coat, “but only for a little while.”

Along with a few of the others from our floor, we head out into the chilly September air. Amanda links her arm through mine and our heels clack against the sidewalk. Our bar of choice tonight is only a few minutes away. I’ve been a couple of times, but not for a while. It’s classy and quiet and has exactly the kind of vibe that I like after a long working day.

Don’t get me wrong - I’m quite the partier. I was at my best, or some might say my worst, in college. The second I hit twenty one, I was out most weekends, drinking myself blind. I’ve since discovered my limits, but back then, I was a hot mess. I’m sure there’s some wonderful photos of me out there that I have yet to see, not that I ever want to.

The boys offer to pay for the girls’ drinks, which is sweet, and who am I to object? As all seven of us sit down in a booth in the corner, I realise that this is peak Upper East Side. Here we are, a bunch of trust fund kids, Ivy-league-educated, sipping our expensive cocktails in an exclusive lounge fo Manhattan’s elite.

I really get to know everybody over the course of the evening. We all get progressively tipsier, safe in the knowledge that none of us have work in the morning, and as the alcohol takes effect upon my brain, I realise that I really like these people. I could grow to consider them friends. There’s Amanda, of course, and then Kara, who is a couple of years our senior, and graduated from Yale. She’s got gorgeous auburn hair that she’s let down for the evening, always keeping it bundled up atop her head in a messy bun during the week. She’s funny and loud and creative. I like her a lot.

The boys are equally as entertaining. Joe and Sam graduated my year at Columbia, which makes me a little anxious, but our paths never crossed there, thank goodness. Then there’s Matt and Ryan who are a little older, around Brendon’s age, but both worked for different companies before coming to Urie & Son around eight months ago. Every single one of them is so unique and brings their own special little flair to the group. I’m enamoured with them all.

I glance at my watch and can’t quite believe that it’s half past nine already. My head feeling slightly giddy, I rise. I take the drinks’ orders from the table and when only two others decide they want another, I figure I can manage them myself. I shuffle out of the booth awkwardly, giggling at some flippant remark that Joe makes and I walk over to the bar.

I give the bartender my orders and just as I’m about to hand over my debit card, a hand with slender fingers, clad in silver rings, slides a fifty dollar bill across the bar instead. “These are on me,” a familiar voice says to the bartender and he nods, taking the money gratefully. I turn my head to look at him and he smiles at me in the way that I have learned to expect from him.

“Good to see you again, Meredith,” he says. “It’s been a while.”

I’m surprised he even remembers my name, what with how many employees he has working beneath him. I force a smile.

“Mr Urie,” I sigh. “You uh, you didn’t have to do that,” I gesture to the change that the bartender hands him.

“Please, darlin’,” he drawls. “It’s Brendon.”

I know exactly what’s going on here. I’m not the only one of us who’s had a couple of drinks already tonight. My sober self would laugh it off and she’d find something witty to say and then she’d make her exit, but tipsy me isn’t so strong. She wants to stay right here at the bar and for some unknown reason, she wants to talk to Brendon for the rest of the night.

“I didn’t know this was your type of hang,” I say, glancing around the bar. It’s much busier now than when we first arrived.

“Oh, this place?” he replies. “No, I’m always here. I’m just usually in my reserved lounge.”

Oh, this _dick_ , I think to myself. Who openly admits that they have their own reserved lounge? Seriously. Who does that shit?

“Right,” I smile. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna get back to my friends now and-”

“Is that the Floor 15 lot?” he interrupts me.

“Yeah,” I answer.

“They seem like a nice group,” he muses, shrugging his shoulders.

“They are. And I’d very much like to get back to spending my evening with them. Why don’t you head on back to your private little lounge that you love to tell people about but won’t actually share with anybody because that would be giving away far too much of the power that you hold over people’s heads like a knife?”

I don’t know where drunken me is getting her confidence from, but I wish that sober me had more of it.

“Woah,” he chuckles. “You certainly have a way with words, Miss Bennett. I can see that you were a Literature student.”

I purse my lips. “How do you know that?”

“You think I don’t research my employees, doll? Particularly the interesting ones.” He edges a little closer to me.

I laugh and I pat his chest with my palm. “Okay, I think we’re done here,” I tell him. Maybe if I had one more Margarita in me, I’d say yes. I’d let him take me back to his place and I would despise myself come morning. I’m so glad that I’m not that far gone.

“Oh sweetheart,” he sighs, the words falling slowly off of his tongue, dripping like red wine. “This is one story that is far from over. Trust me.”

I feel that same tugging sensation in my chest that I haven’t felt since my first day at Urie & Son and I pray to God that it isn’t connected to him somehow. I start to walk back over to the booth but he clears his throat.

“Um, darlin’,” he says, “you forgot your drinks.”

I sigh deeply, swallow my pride and turn around. “Thanks,” I say quickly, slowly arranging the three glasses in my hands.

“Careful now,” he says as I begin to walk away. “You wouldn’t want to trip and spill those over somebody too.”

“Don’t you have somewhere better to be?” I holler over my shoulder.

I hear him laugh and for the first time, it doesn’t sound like the laugh of some egotistical, wealth-obsessed maniac. It just sounds like laugh of a happy man. Shit. How drunk am I?

When I return to the table, Amanda looks at me.

“What took you so long?”

“Bumped into someone,” I sigh, sitting back down and for the rest of the night, try as I might to enjoy myself, I have his laughter ringing in my ears.

I collapse into bed at around 1am, my head spinning. I haven’t even drunk that much, but it’s the fact that I haven’t been out in a while that’s hit me. I lie there for a long time, just staring up at the ceiling. I hate that for some unknown reason, I can’t get that Goddamn jackass out of my mind. Ever since we met, he’s done nothing but treat me like I’m beneath him - like I’m a child. I shouldn’t care for him at all. Why is he the person who’s on my mind at 1:30 in the morning?

I tell myself it’s the alcohol. It has to be the alcohol. Heaving myself up out of bed, I go through to the bathroom and take off my make-up, throw my hair up into a ponytail and go the fuck to bed. I wish I could say that I’m out like a light, but I’m not. Out like a burning ember perhaps - slowly dwindling, but holding on to something that I’m not quite certain of.

The weekend passes just as any other weekend would. I visit Dad. I fill him in on my first two weeks. I purposefully leave out all conversations I have had with Brendon because if he so much as knows that I operate in the same circles as that man, he’ll never let me hear the end of it.

On Monday morning, I arrive to work a little earlier than usual. I’m eager to get ahead. I’m eager to impress. Why the fuck do I even care? Has my brain forgotten that I’m here under false pretences?

Heading to my desk, I place my coffee down and my eyes are drawn to the note. In blocky, large handwriting, scribbled across an official piece of Urie & Son paper with a ‘Mr Brendon Urie’ letterhead, it reads:

_My office. 9am._

_I have a proposition._

— _Brendon_

I read it, and then I read it again and again and again, hoping that the words will change. Shit, I think. What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

 

 


	4. Business Talk Over A Glass Of Scotch At Nine In The Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angels! Hello! Here’s Chapter Four.
> 
> This one’s a little shorter and predominantely dialogue-driven, but I like it a lot, because you really start to kind of see Brendon’s playful side here and the banterous rapport that will continue to develop between Meredith and he. 
> 
> Please don’t forget to hit that Kudos button and leave a comment if you’re feeling super nice! It’d mean a lot to me. 
> 
> Thanks, guys.  
> Love you! 
> 
> Olivia

Now that I am aware of that little note’s existence, I regret getting to work so early. Had I known it was going to be waiting for me, I would have stayed in bed. I would have reluctantly dragged myself here at ten to nine. I don’t want to think about what kind of a ‘proposition’ he has in mind. Judging by his character, it won’t be anything good. I try to focus. I try to get some work done but my computer screen is a jumbled mess of letters, little black markings that my brain can’t unscramble. I sit there, just thinking, my lips pursed, glasses falling down my nose. I pick the piece of paper up again, and I trace over his handwriting delicately with my fingertips. It almost feels like the kind of secret note that you would pass back and forth with your crush in middle school - every letter that they pen, every word, becomes etched in your memory. I close my eyes and I can picture perfectly his blocky style, in all capitals. None of the letters ever touch. Why am I so affected by it? I couldn’t give two fucks about this man.

If you’ve ever had to wait for something to happen at a particular time, then you’ll know that the minutes pass like hours and with every single one that goes by, your mental anxiety meter threatens to tick over from the green section into the red. I’m burning amber right now and I’m not too sure how much longer I can sit here. I wish I could just let it all go. My brain tries to tell me that it’s nothing important - that he probably just wants to make me his permanent coffee girl or something, so he can amusedly watch me bring it to him every morning. I’m so consumed in my worry that I don’t actually notice when the clock strikes nine - or for another ten minutes after that.

“Oh _fuck_!” I exclaim perhaps a little too loudly when I finally realise the time. I leap up out of my seat, much to the surprise of everybody else around me and I bolt to the elevator.

I arrive up to Floor 50 in a fluster. I don’t bother consulting his moody secretary this time around. I just smooth down my hair and tug down my skirt and enter without knocking.

He’s sat behind his desk, tapping upon the keys of his laptop. When he sees me standing there, panting for breath, he closes the lid and he rises, crossing around to the front, casually leaning back against the wood.

“Correct me if I’m wrong Miss Bennett, but I do believe the note I sent you said to be here for 9. It’s now almost twenty past.”

I have no excuses this time. He’s not being a dick. He’s right - for once.

“I’m sorry,” I sigh, still struggling for air. I need to hit the gym more.

He makes a little noise of hummed discontent and straightens his cufflinks. He then proceeds to walk over to the floor-to-ceiling window that consumes an entire two walls of his office and I watch as he turns away and casually pushes his hands into his pockets, leaving me to stand there like a disgraced schoolgirl.

“Do you have any idea why I could have asked you here today?” he asks me without turning to address me. It comes across as incredibly rude but then again, should I expect anything else from him at this point?

“None,” I answer truthfully. “I hope you’re not going to fire me.”

He lets out one of those pretentious little laughs and swivels effortlessly on his heel. I feel like I have to stand to attention whenever he’s looking at me.

“Why would I have any reason to do that?” he smiles. “You’re funny, Meredith.”

I close my eyes and sigh deeply as he walks across his office to a liquor tray on top of a grand piano in the corner. My eyes widen as he pours himself a glass of scotch - neat.

“What?” he questions. He’s obviously noticed my change in expression.

“Nothing, I just... it’s nine in the morning.”

He shrugs it off. “Eh. It’s five o’clock somewhere, right?”

I can’t help but smile a little at that. My kind of man.

“You’ve been here, what? Two weeks now?” he asks, leaning upon his desk again.

I nod.

“Are you enjoying it?”

“It’s alright,” I tell him straight.

“Just alright?” he queries, smirking as he takes a sip of his scotch.

I think for a moment. How can I word this without offending him?

“I don’t always feel like I’m challenged enough,” I say boldly.

He places his glass down upon the desk and begins to walk towards me. I keep my eyes trained steadily upon his, keeping the power play level.

“Not challenged enough?” he echoes my words. “How so?”

“I just... I always finish my daily tasks by, like, three. And this is a newspaper, right? Doesn’t a newspaper need articles?”

He folds his arms across his chest and stands a couple of feet in front of me. “It does,” he replies cockily. “You’re sharp. But there’s a lot more that goes on in a firm this size besides just writing articles and those jobs need owners too, do they not?”

“They do,” I counter with the same energy and I smirk as I watch him shrink back a little. I don’t think he was expecting me to put up any kind of resistance. “I just think that these are the kinds of things that, as CEO, you should be monitoring. If I’m finishing my jobs for the day by three then that’s an extra two hours a day I’m wasting, say, playing Tetris.”

He sniggers. “You play Tetris? What are you, twelve?”

I take personal offence to that remark. “It keeps me focused,” I argue.

He throws his hands up in surrender. “Hey, whatever helps you sleep at night.”

I make a noise of frustration. “You’re missing the point!” I retort. “Give me things to do. I _want_ to work. I... I don’t wanna waste my time here.”

He licks his bottom lip and nods. “Hey, I hear ya,” he says. “Maybe this proposition of mine could help that. Come. Sit.”

Ah, yes. The proposition. I forgot that that was the reason that I was here. I got so caught up in... never mind. I take the seat in front of his desk and he goes behind. It feels awfully formal. I feel like I’m in the Principal’s office.

“Have you met my secretary? Sharon?” he asks me.

The bitchy redhead who gives me evil glares every time I walk by? Yeah. I’m familiar.

“We haven’t been properly introduced,” I reply, “but I’ve seen her around, yeah.”

“Well, she’s going on vacation for a month at the end of the week,” he sighs deeply before continuing. “I’m supposed to be holding interviews this afternoon to find her temp. But I don’t know, I think I’m gonna cancel them.”

The way he speaks, the way he looks at me - it all hits me at once. Like a punch in the stomach. Or an atom blast.

“You want me to be her temp,” I say, leaning back in my chair, folding my arms across my chest.

“God, you’re smart, Bennett,” he smirks and I feel no shame in smirking back. There’s a similar energy flowing between us in that moment. I think we’re more akin than either one of us would like to admit.

“Why me though?” I ask, because it’s a genuine query that I have. He barely knows me.

“Like I said,” he shrugs, reaching for his half-finished glass of scotch, “you’re smart. And you’re funny. I’d like to have you around more.”

I purse my lips and I hum because if I open my mouth, I think I might scream instead.

“What if I say no?” I test him. I’m not going to say no.

“Then I guess you’ll just have to go back to playing Tetris from three til five every afternoon,” he shrugs, finishing off his drink.

Oh yes, I think. _Definitely_ my kind of man. 

“Okay,” I say. “You’ve got a deal.”

I watch as his lips quirk up into his signature cocky smile, but for the first time, I don’t hate it. It sort of becomes him.

“Excellent,” Brendon says and he stands. I stand too. When he extends his hand, I shake it, and I note how much larger his hands are than my own.

“So... Monday?” I ask him. “Do I start Monday?”

“You start Monday,” he smiles. “Go on. Back to work. Tetris awaits.”

“Cut it out,” I glare at him as I head for the door. “I can very easily change my mind.”

He holds his hands out like my words mean nothing. “Sorry, Meredith. We shook on it. Deal’s a deal.”

I have my hand on the door when he says my name again to stop me. It’s very reminiscent of the first time I was in this room.

“You know,” he tells me, “you’d look a lot more professional with your hair down.”

“And you’d look a lot more professional with your mouth shut.”

I fling the door open and I hear him chuckle. Just before it closes, I hear him mutter beneath his breath, “yeah. We’re going to get along just fine.”

Smugly, I strut from his office to the elevator. A female voice says my name softly and seriously as I press the button. I turn to face Sharon.

“I will be coming back,” she says. “This isn’t forever. Just remember that.”

I step into the elevator and watch her return to her desk as the metal doors close. With a sigh, I slump against the wall. Once I’m back at my desk, I take a hold of his little note and I slip it gently into my drawer, burying it beneath some files - for safekeeping.

And then I open Tetris and I play for a little bit, biting back a smile, and I think of him.


	5. Question Of The Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! It’s me - back at it again with Chapter Five.
> 
> I have to say, this is my favourite chapter so far. I know I say that every time but I mean it! With each update, Brendon gets progressively softer and it makes my heart melt. I promise you, I really did try to make him a dick at the beginninf, but it just didn’t fit his character. He’s a flirty, slick motherfucker. Hate him. But also love him.
> 
> Please hit that Kudos button and let me know what you think in the comments! i really appreciate all of your feedback.
> 
> Lots of love,  
> Olivia

On Sunday evening, after finally finishing my disastrously long re-read of War & Peace, I retire to bed early and wake up in the morning feeling refreshed and ready. I’m not nervous because honestly, what is there to be nervous about? I’m excited to actually have some variety to my day instead of sitting at a desk reading streams of boring emails.

I stop off at my favourite independent coffee shop on the way and start my day off right with a skinny chai latte. I also see three dogs on the short walk from said coffee shop to work, so when I arrive, I’m in the best of moods.

Taking the elevator all the way up to Floor 50 as opposed to my usual 15 feels so strange. I haven’t told any of my friends about the promotion. I’m not too sure how they’d take it. I mean, I’m sure they’d be happy about it - but I feel bad. I’ve only been here, what? Two weeks? Some of them have worked here years. What makes me deserving of such a senior position, even if it is only temporary, when some of them have put in triple the amount of work here than I ever have?

I know I can’t afford to screw this up. For the first time in a while, I remind myself of why I’m actually here, and how this new job could really benefit me - and my father. It’s funny, but The Ambrose Tribunal hasn’t been on my mind since my first day here. And in two weeks, I feel like I’ve learned more about Urie & Son than I have in my twenty-three years of being involved with the paper that bears my own damn surname.

When I get up to the top, I slowly open his office door and peak my head around to see of he’s already here. He isn’t, so I head over to Sharon’s desk, which is temporarily mine. Sitting behind it feels... odd. I feel so out of place. Am I really qualified to be Personal Secretary to the Chief Executive Officer of one of the biggest newspapers in the world? Little old me? Really?

Until Brendon arrives, I’m not really too sure what I should do. What would Sharon do to keep herself busy until he arrived? I drum my fingernails against the glass desktop and open up the email account that has temporarily been set up for me and despite it only being up since late Friday afternoon, already, over a hundred messages have been sent in over the weekend, everybody desperate for Brendon’s attention for some reason or another.

“Damn,” I whisper aloud. “The boy’s popular.”

Leaning my head in my hand, I scroll through all of them, reading them one by one, from oldest to newest. The sudden burst of energy that my coffee gave me is already starting to wear off. It’s so incredibly early in the morning.

“Wow, Bennett,” a voice from above me says, “you look absolutely enthralled.”

I look up to see him stood there, smiling at me in the same way that he did last week when I confessed my Tetris obsession.

“Brendon!” I exclaim, standing quickly, bashing my knee hard on the desk leg.

He winces. “I felt that,” he says. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I smile brightly. Fuck, that hurt.

“How long have you been here?”

“An hour or so,” I tell him. “How are you? Do you need me to get you anything?”

He chuckles. “Slow down,” he says, with just a hint of patronisation. “You’re my secretary, not my wet nurse.”

I shrink back in embarrassment. I feel as my cheeks burn scarlet. I pray that he doesn’t notice.

“You can start by grabbing me a coffee. We all know your experience with them is on par,” he teases, and I want to smack him.

“Ha ha,” I reply monotonously. “What’ll it be, chief?”

“Black. No sugar,” he says and I’m reminded that he already told me that.

“Wait,” I ask him as he begins to head for his office, “you always have the same? You never change it up at all?”

He wrinkles his nose. “Nah,” he replies. “I’m too boring for that.”

He lets himself into his office and I’m left standing there, feeling only the tiniest bit overwhelmed. It’s like he has some sort of unspeakable aura that follows him wherever he goes that has the power to make me dizzy. I wonder what it could be and then I realise that it’s simply called ‘money’.

I go and fetch his coffee. I realise that I never asked whether he prefers a home-brew or store bought so I get both. When I return with a plastic Starbucks cup in one hand and a mug from the kitchen in the other, he looks rather perplexed. I explain my reasoning to him and he chuckles, burying his face in his hands.

“Oh, you are too much, Meredith,” he sighs amusedly. “Thank you.”

I can’t help but smile as I turn to leave when I’m stopped.

“Wait! Hold on,” he says to me. I turn back to address him and he smiles. “Question Of The Day: what’s your favourite colour?”

“Huh?”

He must note the look of utter confusion etched across my features because he laughs again. Considering he has such a serious job, he’s a very smiley man.

“Question Of The Day!” he repeats. “It’s just a little game I play with Sharon all the time. Whenever she brings me my coffee in the morning, I ask her a question. It’s fun. So... favourite colour?”

I don’t question it. Whatever helps him sleep at night. “Um... yellow,” I answer honestly.

“Interesting. Very interesting,” Brendon muses, jotting it down.

“What are you? My shrink?” I tease him, rolling my eyes.

“Hey. I could be,” he remarks with a quirk of his lips.

All I can do is shake my head. “Do some work,” I tell him, and then I’m out the door.

I spend most of that first day replying to emails. Whenever Brendon needs me, he can buzz me, through a button system that connects our desks. It’s oddly formal yet strangely intimate at the same time, just like the note on my desk had been.

At 5 o’clock, as I’m packing up my things to go home, he calls me in one final time.

“So,” he says, closing his laptop lid, “how was your first day?”

“Good,” I answer truthfully. Why does he make me so nervous all of a sudden? It’s not necessarily a bad kind of nervous, but it’s nervous all the same.

“Good,” he echoes. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Same time tomorrow.”

I head for the door but yet again-

“Oh, and Meredith?”

He has a habit of doing this.

“Mmm?” I hum.

“Thank you,” he says softly. “For agreeing to this. It’s good to have somebody I feel like I can trust up top with me.”

“Of course,” I reply, even though it feels like I’m being stabbed repeatedly in the chest. Oh Brendon, I think to myself, if only you knew.

The next day follows in almost exactly the same way. I get to work early. I go through new emails. When Brendon arrives, I get him his coffee (he has since informed me that he prefers it homemade instead of that “processed overpriced shit”) and when I set it down on his desk, he catches me off guard with his over-enthusiastic “Question Of The Day!”

“Jeez, you were serious about that?” I laugh.

“Oh, deadly,” he says. “If you had to choose between fighting ten duck sized horses or one horse sized duck, which would you go with?”

I physically feel my eyes widen. This is one of the most influential men in the game right now. He did _not_ just ask me that.

“Well?” he questions further.

“Uhm... the duck sized horses,” I chuckle. “God, you’re fucking weird.”

When I head for the door, he tries to stop me again. I don’t turn around.

“Hey! Meredith! I’m not done!” He’s laughing through his words.

“I have work to do,” I say and I close the door on him.

The next morning is executed in exactly the same fashion. I take him his coffee, and dramatically, he drum rolls on his desk. It’s the same every single time. It seems to be the highlight of his whole day. His questions aren’t always bizarre, though. He asks my favourite flower on the Wednesday. He even makes a point of ending the business call he’s on just to ask me. If I could only eat one food for the rest of my life, what would it be is Thursday’s choice. On Friday morning, he asks me if I’m single.

I just give him a look. He smirks in response. “It’s a simple question, Meredith,” he says slickly.

“It’s a loaded question,” I respond, “but yes. I am single.”

He juts out his bottom lip, pretending to really think about that as he writes it down. “Good to know,” he says. “Alright. That’ll be all.”

As I walk over to the door, I’m the one who turns around. “Not gonna stop me this time?”

He smirks at me and then licks his lips, eyeing me up and down in a way that doesn’t creep me out like it would if he was any other man. It’s actually really fucking hot. “Get outta here,” he says.

Later that afternoon, I’m sat at my desk, furiously replying to some angry white man who’s accusing Brendon of poaching a staff member, using every long word that I have in my vocabulary to try and throw him off, when a familiar redhead bounces into my peripheral vision.

“Sharon?” I question. “I thought you were on vacation?”

“I am,” she replies. “Do you mind moving for a second?”

“Oh, uh... sure,” I say, pushing my seat back, getting out of her way.

“My flight for Hawaii leaves in like, three hours. I’ve been packing all week and I’ve only just realised I left... this!” she tugs her passport out of the back of a desk drawer. “Oh thank God,” she laughs in relief.

“You would’ve been screwed without that,” I remark teasingly. The moment I’ve said it, I’m scared that she’s going to bite my head off, but thankfully, she smiles.

“Tell me about it. Is he in there?” she asks, gesturing to Brendon’s door.

“Oh, uh, no,” I answer truthfully. “He had to go out.”

“Ah. Okay,” she sighs. I could be wrong, but I’m sure that I see a touch of sadness flicker across for her features for a brief moment. “Well, can you let him know I’ll text him when I land?”

I nod. “Of course.”

She goes to leave, passport in hand, when I suddenly realise that I have something to ask her.

“Hey, Sharon?”

She looks at me.

“What’s, um... what’s up with the whole Question A Day thing?” I ask her with a little laugh.

She looks at me like I’m speaking Japanese. “What do you mean?”

With less confidence, I explain. “Every morning... when you take him his coffee, he asks you a random question and then he writes it down in a little journal.”

“Meredith, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” she tells me and she looks at me like I’m the densest person in this entire fucking firm. “When I take him his coffee, he just says thank you and that’s it. He’s usually on the phone or something. No questions asked.”

I dip my head. Oh. “Right. Yeah, um, forget I asked,” I say with a little nervous laugh.

She smiles a bit weirdly at me, like she’s disturbed or something. “I’ll see you in a few weeks, Meredith,” she says, and then she leaves, and I’m left with so many unanswered questions. Maybe I can flip it onto him. It’s my turn to have a Question Of The Day.

Later that afternoon, when he’s back, I’m casually tidying his office to keep myself busy. I’ve got no emails left to answer and he doesn’t seem to mind me being in here. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s actually quite comfortable.

Finally, I work up the courage to start the conversation.

“Sharon was here earlier,” I say, rather blasé as I straighten some of the photo frames atop his liquor cabinet.

“Sharon was here?” he questions, eyebrows furrowed, not looking up from his laptop.

“Yeah, she um, forgot some things that she needed for her flight so she dropped by before heading to the airport,” I explain, “but that’s besides the point.” I cross over to his desk and place my palms flat against it. He looks up at me then. I smile. “She said that you don’t ask her any questions in the morning. This whole ‘Question A Day’ thing? She’d never heard of it.”

He sighs, shakes his head and then slaps both of his hands over his heart dramatically, as if I’ve just shot him in the chest. “You got me, Bennett,” he replies with a shrug of his shoulders. “You got me good.”

I laugh and run a hand through my hair. “I don’t get it,” I say.

“What’s there to get?”

“Why did you lie?”

He pauses for a moment and then he closes his laptop lid, leaning forward so he’s closer to me. I absentmindedly also do the same.

“I didn’t want to scare you off,” he tells me.

“I’m not going to become a part of some freaky social experiment of yours, am I?” I ask him. It makes him laugh and I realise in that moment that I like making him laugh way more than I probably should.

“No, Meredith,” he chuckles. “No you’re not. God, you are funny.” He leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. “I just wanted to get to know you better,” he says. “But I wanted to get to know the silly things, y’know? The things that you can never ask in a normal conversation because there’s never an appropriate way to ask them.”

My God, I think. This man is something else.

“Does that bother you?” he asks. I look at him and I can physically see the anxiety dashed across his features.

“Of course not,” I answer honestly. “I like it.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

I look up at the clock. It’s 5. He must notice me looking, because he sighs and says, “go on. Get out of here.”

“I can stay,” I insist. “I haven’t finished cleaning up.”

“Mere,” he drawls, and it’s the first time he’s ever shortened my name like that. I feel my heart catch in my throat. “Look around. The place is spotless. Go on. Go home.”

I nod and I head for his door. One last time, I place my palm against the wood but turn my body to face him. “Have a good weekend, okay?” I tell him. It doesn’t feel like the right thing to say. It doesn’t feel like enough, but it’s all that I can think of.

“Yeah,” he smiles and it’s so soft and so unlike the Brendon that I initially spilt coffee all over on my first day that I wonder what on earth I said or did to make him change his attitude towards me so quickly. “Yeah, you too.”

Amanda catches me as I’m leaving. We hug. I briefly tell her about my week and she tells me about hers. When she insists that I join her and the Floor 15 bunch for drinks again, I go to speak but I catch a familiar body walking through the lobby. He catches my eyes and I catch his and there’s such a weight to the way he looks at me that I want, no, _need_ nothing more than to just be on my own right now.

“I’m not feeling so great,” I lie to her. “I think I just need to get home and have an early night. It’s been a crazy week.”

She understands - and she lets me go and honestly, it wasn’t all a fib. I do go straight home, but get an early night I do not. I lie awake for hours, just staring at the ceiling - thinking. I replay so many moments from this week over and over in mind, analysing and re-analysing them until eventually, I think I must pass out from exhaustion, and I wake up at noon the next day feeling heavy and dull, like I’ve drunk three whole bottles of wine the night before, when in actuality, I’m more sober than I’ve ever been.


	6. Rookie Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! 
> 
> I’m back again. Sorry it’s been a few days since my last upload. I’ve been working a lot and I also move to university in less than two weeks so I have lots to get sorted for that! Please bear with me. I promuse I’m still writing as often as I can.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this one. I’m not too sure how I feel about it. The general premise of the ‘rookie dinner’ was stolen from one of my favourite TV shows, Suits. I think it’s a really cool idea and I wanted to drop it into my story.
> 
> Please let me know what you think in the comments and as always, don’t forget to hit that Kudos button! 
> 
> Love you,   
> Olivia

“Well that’s fantastic!”

I watch the cunning grin of masterful glee spread across my father’s features and feel a little nauseous. How he can so easily take advantage of other people, no matter who they are, worries me. I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised in this instance though, nor should I judge him. If there’s one person that he’ll want to get one over on, it’s Brendon Urie.

“And he really has no idea?” he asks over dinner.

I shake my head and sip my wine. “No, none. Or if he does, he hasn’t let on.”

My father chuckles. “Oh this really is great,” he says. “His Personal Secretary... I’ve taught you well, my girl.”

I dip my head so he doesn’t see the grimace upon my lips. I wish he knew that when I accepted my new position, the Tribunal was the furthest thing from my mind. I think of Brendon (I think of him a lot nowadays) and I try to picture how he’ll react if he finds out. It isn’t pretty. I don’t want him to ever discover the truth. I don’t think I could bear for him to think such awful thoughts about me. Sometimes, I wish I could tell him, but make sure he knows that none of this was my idea. I never wanted to hurt anybody. I never wanted to trick anybody. Maybe the idea of it was the tiniest bit intriguing at first, but now, Urie & Son is no longer just a name slapped on the side of another skyscraper in Manhattan. It’s so much more than that - and its people are so much more than that. I know that every day that I spend there is just one day closer to this all blowing up in my face, but if I continue to dwell on that, I’ll self-destruct. I have to push it to the back of my mind and take it one day at a time. It’s the only way I’ll survive.

When I leave, he catches me by the arm. “Remember,” he tells me, his features stony, “don’t lose sight of why you’re in that Goddamn firm. You’re not there to make friends.”

The look on his face tells me everything I need to know. I hate how much he intimidates me now. It never used to be this way.

“Bye, Dad,” I say simply, because I can’t get out much more than that right now. Finally, when I’m alone in my car, I turn the radio all the way up and I cry the entire way home.

Brendon’s late into work on Monday morning. He rocks up about eleven, suit jacket slung casually over one shoulder, looking like some sort of movie star. He’s got sunglasses on too, even though he’s inside now. He doesn’t say anything to me, just walks straight from the elevator to his office, crossing right in front of my desk without even acknowledging my existence. I suppose I have no right to take it personally, but after everything that had gone down during our first week, all the jokes we shared, I just thought...

I don’t know whether to bother him or not. Perhaps a little bit of me is still scared of him. Well, no, scared probably isn’t the right word. Intimidated, maybe. I figure if he wanted to talk to me, he would have said something the minute he saw me, but regardless, I have a job to do, and that job includes checking to see if he needs anything, professionally or personally, so I rise and cross over to his office door, rapping my knuckles against it gently.

“Come in.”

I push the door open gently and see him sat at his desk, posture slumped, eyes red. He looks like he hasn’t slept. It’s so unlike the Brendon that I’ve come to know.

“Hey,” I start softly. I realise I sound more concerned than is probably suitable, so I try to level out my tone. “Anything that I can get you?”

“No,” he says bluntly.

I purse my lips. “This is clearly a bad time,” I reply. “I’ll come back later.”

I head for the door and I’m not surprised when he stops me, because, well, that’s his thing.

“Wait!” he calls.

I turn and look right into his eyes as he stares into mine. I realise in that moment that he’s not just being a dick - he’s upset over something. But similarly, I get the impression that if I asked what was wrong, he wouldn’t tell me.

“Never mind,” he says. He was going to say something and he decided against it. I know that feeling all too well.

“Coffee?” I offer. Because coffee always helps.

“Coffee would be great,” he says. “Thank you.”

I smile and go. I’ve got his order down to a fine art now. Whilst I’m making it, I run through everything I _could_ say to him but probably won’t. Definitely won’t. Sometimes, even though it hurts, silence is best for everybody.

There’s just something about him that I can’t quite put my finger on. I don’t know whether I’m just overwhelmed because he’s nothing like the man that I had been led to believe he was, or if it’s more than that. He’s just so different to anybody else that I’ve ever met. So unique. And special. I can see why he’s held in such high esteem. He’s got some sort of spark about him. I feel like if I ever touched his skin, I’d get an electric shock. I really need to stop thinking about touching his skin.

Placing his coffee down on his desk, I feel my breath hitch in my throat when he places his hand on top of mine. He smiles at me like in that moment, I’m the only person he wants to see.

“Question of the day,” I say, beating him to it.

He laughs breathily. “Yup.”

Slowly, he withdraws his hand. Mine still burns with the touch of his own. I really wish this all didn’t affect me as much as it does.

“Ask away,” I tell him.

“Do you know what a ‘rookie dinner’ is?” he asks.

I shake my head no. “Tell me.”

“It’s a tradition at firms of this size,” he explains, “where the newest addition, the rookie, shall we say, hosts a dinner when they’ve been here a month. It’s not for everybody here because quite frankly, I don’t think there’s a restaurant big enough in all of New York City to house us all. You invite the people you know and it’s a chance to get to know all of your immediate colleagues a bit better. It’s fun.”

I nod. “I see. And let me guess... it’s time for me to step up and announce mine, huh?”

“Well, I mean, I’m no mathematician, Meredith, but you have been here for a month now so, I would deduce that yes, that is correct.” The smarmy bastard smirks and takes a sip of his coffee and I see that familiar playful light creep back into his eyes again. 

I bite back a laugh and take a seat on the edge of his desk right beside him. Perhaps it’s a little too suggestive. Perhaps it’s more forward than I should be. Perhaps I don’t care.

“Can you suggest a venue?” I ask him.

He licks his lips and shakes his head. “No can do, Miss Bennett. I’m not giving you an ounce of help here. I have work to do.”

He opens his laptop, but boldly, I close it. He glances at me with a look in his eyes that suggests he’s finally realising we’re more akin than he’d believed us to be.

“I mean it,” he reiterates. “I’m not helping you. The rookie dinner is taken very seriously. It has to all come from you.”

I huff and get up. “Fine,” I say. “Alright, I’ll organise it myself. But if it’s taken so seriously then you can’t blame me if I spend the majority of this week party-planning instead of answering your emails.”

Quickly, I hurry to the door, like I’m afraid he’s going to chase me like we’re schoolchildren. He doesn’t. But he does laugh loudly.

“Meredith Bennett, if you don’t get back here right now,” he warns. I can hear the smile upon his lips.

I simply pull a face at him and disappear around the door, closing it swiftly before resting my weight against it, heaving out deep breaths. I close my eyes and just sigh. Meredith, I tell myself, he’s your boss. More than that, he’s your family’s enemy. You can’t do this. Not now. Not ever. Let him go.

I spend the rest of that morning flipping between my email inbox and websites for restaurants in Manhattan. At almost noon, Brendon emerges from his office and walks cooly by my desk, drumming his fingertips along its surface as he goes.

“I hope you’re working,” he smirks as he heads for the elevator, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Absolutely,” I lie. When he looks back at me, I wink. He smiles that wonderful smile and all feels right in the world again.

The rookie dinner is set for that Friday evening. I send out a group email to everybody from Floor 15 and then the few others that I know from other departments within the firm. I also send a copy to [brendonurie@urieandson.com](mailto:brendonurie@urieandson.com). I don’t know whether that’s appropriate or not, but I send it all the same. I know he’s seen it when he makes a point of buzzing me into his office, and I straighten out my dress and enter as if I haven’t a clue why I’m there.

“You invited me to your rookie dinner,” he says. It’s a statement rather than a question.

“I did,” I say plainly, my hands clasped behind my back. “Will you be in attendance?”

He lets out a laugh through his nose. “I’ll think about it,” he replies. When his eyes meet mine, I wish there wasn’t a gigantic table separating us.

“Good,” I smile and with a curt nod, I head for the door. I should know by now to expect him calling my name when my hand is upon the handle. I turn to look at him.

He just stares at me a bit weirdly. He doesn’t say anything. His eyes are soft. For a moment I think that maybe...

“Did you want to ask me something?” I whisper.

He shakes his head. “No,” he gulps, coming back to his senses. “No, go on. I’ll catch up with you later.”

On Friday afternoon, when the clock strikes five, I head to the bathrooms to get ready for the dinner. I change into a simple little black cocktail dress that’s the perfect mix of class and danger. Make-up has always been a big love of mine ever since I was little and I take pleasure in meticulously applying it in the mirror, coating my lips in a glossy red.

Heading back up to my desk to grab the last of my things, I walk straight into him as he’s leaving his office.

“Shit, sorry, I’m-” I begin, but he cuts me off.

“Woah, Bennett,” he sighs, looking a little overwhelmed. I feel the blush rise up to my cheeks. “You scrub up pretty well, don’t you?”

I tilt my head to one side and give him a look. He smiles.

“I’m kidding,” he continues. “You look stunning.”

“Thank you,” I say, tucking my hair behind my ear. How he can reduce to me to a blushing, adolescent mess with just a look is beyond me. “Are you coming?”

“Course I’m coming,” he says gently. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

I’m taken aback when he holds out his arm. Surely he doesn’t expect us to rock up together? Does he have any idea how suggestive that will look?

“Shall we?” he offers.

I have the weakest resolve in the world. I link my arm through his. Nothing has ever felt so right. “We shall.”

When we arrive, the drinks are already flowing. Everybody is mingling and chatting and nobody really seems to notice that Brendon and I arrive arm in arm.

“What are you drinking, Bennett?” he asks as the waiter takes our coats. I tell him and I watch as he heads over to the bar and turn when I feel a hand upon my arm.

“You and Brendon?” Amanda smiles. Well, almost nobody noticed. Amanda has never really been classed as ‘nobody’ though.

I quash her suspicions immediately. “It’s nothing,” I tell her honestly. “We just happened to leave the office at the same time. Really, Amanda. Nothing’s going on.”

“If you say so,” she smirks wickedly, “but the night is young.”

I roll my eyes and let her pull me wherever she wants me.

When we all sit down to dinner, I get sandwiched in with the Floor 15 bunch. I’m scanning all of the tables for Brendon when I see him, collecting his coat from the waiter. He’s on the phone and from what I can infer from his facial expressions, it seems like a pretty heated debate. My heart sinks as I watch him leave, but really, I should be grateful that he even turned up at all. He had no obligations to. I seem to keep forgetting that he’s still my boss and not my boyfriend.

Dinner passes in a bit of a drunken blur. After he leaves, I have nobody there to impress, so I knock back cocktail after cocktail, not caring about how much I’ll regret it in the morning. At the end of the evening, I wander over to the bar, more than just a bit tipsy, and I pull my card out of my purse.

He looks at me as he’s cleaning a glass and his eyebrows furrow. “Your check’s already been paid in full by a Mr Brendon Urie, miss,” he informs me and he slides me the receipt.

Taking a hold of the piece of paper, I look at the amount and I’m absolutely baffled. It’s nothing that I couldn’t already pay but the fact that he spent over $10,000 on _me_... it’s incomprehensible. Money’s no object to a man like him, to kids like us, but I still can’t quite believe that he paid the _entire_ night’s check. For what? Does he expect some kind of pay off? He should know right now that I can’t be bought, if that was what he was expecting. On the taxi ride home, I can’t stop thinking about it. When I get home and collapse into my bed, I can’t stop thinking about it. When I wake up on Saturday morning with a heavy head and aching limbs, I can’t stop fucking thinking about it.

We’ll certainly be having words on Monday morning.


	7. A New Brendon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO!
> 
> I’m so sorry that it’s been a little while since my last upload. Like I mentioned in the previous chapter’s notes, I’m very busy right now preparing for my move to university in a few days. This chapter is a bit of a filler, but I promise that the next one will be much better - and worth the wait. 
> 
> Thank you for all bearing with me whilst I go through these very hectic next few weeks. I will do my best tp get another chapter up within the next few days but if I don’t, just know that I haven’t forgotten about this story and I will get back to it as soon as my life is a little less busy.
> 
> Please leave me comments and Kudos as always. I love you all!
> 
> Bye for now,  
> Olivia

Sure enough, first thing on Monday, when Brendon arrives, I follow him into his office with a confident gait but nervousness tickling my heartstrings.

“You paid for my dinner,” I say outright. I’m not beating around the bush here.

“I did?” he replies with a confused look upon his face, but I can tell that he’s playing.

“You know that you did,” I counter, folding my arms across my chest. “It’s not my dinner if you pay for it.”

“Of course it is,” he shrugs, spinning a little in his chair. “You chose the restaurant. You chose the menu. You hosted the whole damn thing - and everybody loved it, just so you know.”

“Including you? I saw you leave at about eight o’clock.”

He looks a little ashen and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I, um... had business to attend to,” he answers, fumbling his way through the sentence.

“Business?” I ask. “On a Friday night? Isn’t that your time off?”

“Meredith,” he begins with a sigh and I hate that old patronising tone that is creeping back into his voice. I thought we’d moved past that. “I’m CEO of a newspaper that gets published seven days a week, three hundred and sixty five days a year. I don’t get time off.”

I huff out a defeated sigh and revert the topic of conversation back to its origin. “You still didn’t have to pay that much,” I say.

“I know,” Brendon agrees. “It was a gesture. A thank you. For everything you’ve done so far.”

But I haven’t _done_ anything, I think to myself. He keeps saying thank you to me when all I’m doing is my job.

“Will I be able to repay you for said gesture?”

“No,” he answers quickly. “Let it go, Mere. Please. For me.”

I shake my head, dipping it so he doesn’t see my smile. It’s sort of ridiculous how much that nickname affects me when it’s falling off of his tongue.

“Alright,” I reply softly, realising that he is just as stubborn as I am. “Okay, I’ll let it go.” I look up and meet his eyes. Gently, with a fluttering sensation dancing around inside of my chest, I say, “thank you,” and then I go.

Later that morning, as I’m typing up a reply to an email regarding one of our headline stories for the following day, a stony-faced older man with wisps of white hair and icy grey eyes strides past me in the direction of Brendon’s office. I don’t get a good enough look at him to see if he’s somebody I recognise.

“Uh, excuse me, Sir!” I call, jumping up. “You can’t just go in without an appointment.”

He chuckles. It’s a cold, sharp kind of laugh and it sets me right on edge. As he pushes open Brendon’s office door without knocking, I rush in after him.

“Brendon, I’m so sorry,” I say quickly. “I tried to stop him, I-”

“It’s alright,” he cuts me off and he gives me a reassuring smile.

“Good to see she’s attentive and not just a pretty face,” the older man jeers.

“Dad, that’s enough,” Brendon scolds him and as the silver haired giant in the pinstripe suit turns to look at me, it all makes sense.

I’m left standing there feeling stupid, small and very, very female - in the demeaning sort of way that only a man could perceive a female. Especially in a workplace such as this. I don’t even have the confidence to fight.

“I’ll, um... yeah,” I murmur softly and excuse myself from the room. Before I go, Brendon’s father throws a casual, “good to meet you, darlin’,” over his shoulder, but it’s laced with misogyny and it makes me feel terribly nauseous.

Back at my desk, I try to pour all my energy and attention into my work, trying to focus on anything other than the fact that that door could swing open at any moment and I’d become subject to Mr Urie’s wandering gaze once more.

About half an hour after he first entered, he reemerges. He takes one look at me and it’s not a pleasant one. For some reason, he looks angry at me.

Once the elevator doors have closed behind him, I sheepishly walk over to Brendon’s door and knock. He calls me in.

I don’t know what I came here to say exactly. I just know that I want to see him.

He’s sat at his desk, lit cigarette poised between his fingers, but he has a grimace upon his lips.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” I comment.

“I don’t,” he retorts and with force, he blunts the cigarette out in the ash tray to his left. Judging by the length of it, he’s perhaps only taken one or two drags.

I cross over to the window and push it open to let in some fresh air. There’s nothing I hate more than the smell of cigarette smoke.

I turn back to look at Brendon and he seems... pensive. I wish I knew what was going on inside his brain. I wish I knew what his father had said to him to make him change so suddenly.

“Are you alright?” I ask him tenderly. I really need to take a step back and approach this situation professionally, but it’s hard when he looks so damn sad.

“Never been better,” he says, quite clearly lying. “I’m sorry about what he said to you. You know I didn’t hire you just because you’re pretty, don’t you?”

Do I know that? I’ve never really thought about it before. “Of course,” I tell him. “You shouldn’t have to apologise on his behalf. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

He smiles weakly at me and then starts shuffling some papers on his desk, holding out a wad of them for me to take.

“Can you get these filed for me?” he asks. I quickly scan over their contents and nod.

“Sure.”

“Brilliant,” he replies perhaps a little sharper than usual. I can’t help it - I’m worried about him and I don’t want to leave him alone right now.

“Well?” he questions, eyebrows furrowing. “Why are you still standing there?”

There’s absolutely no playfulness in his tone whatsoever. I wonder if his father did away with my Brendon and replaced him with some evil clone. Everything feels very off-centre.

“Sorry,” I mutter and I go to the door. He stops me, however, before I go, and that small act reminds me that the Brendon I know is still in there somewhere - because that’s his thing.

“I need those done within the hour, alright? So get on with it.”

I look at him with furrowed eyebrows and confused, sad eyes. I know that he notices it, because his whole face changes for a moment. For a split second, he looks like he regrets what he just said but instead of an apology, I get a dismissal with a cold wave of his hand, and it’s funny how two minutes ago, I was desperate to come into his office to check on him and now, all of a sudden, I can’t get out of here fast enough.

I get the filing done. The entire time, I can’t stop thinking about Brendon’s change of tune and desperately wrack my brains for anything his dad could have said to make him this way or any signs I may have missed. Maybe there weren’t any signs. Maybe his father didn’t say anything. Maybe, deep down, he’s been a dick all along, and his friendly, smiley disposition was just a clever tactic to win over my trust. That, however, is my last resort solution. I’d rather believe anything other than that.

I don’t see him for the rest of the day. He takes off around lunchtime and doesn’t come back. At 5 o’clock, like clockwork, I pack up my things and I take the subway home. I can’t sleep that night. Anxiety writhes around inside of my stomach and triple knots it. I wake up that following morning with a headache so severe, it’s the first time since starting this job that I’ve considered taking a sick day. Of course I don’t even dare. Judging by Brendon’s mood yesterday, I don’t think it’d go down well. Then again, all I can do is hope that whatever caused him to turn so sour has since been resolved and maybe, just maybe, he’ll be back to the Brendon that I’ve come to know - the one that I’ve come to _like_.

I should be so lucky. When he arrives, he doesn’t speak to me. I try to let it go. I try not to get angry. Or upset. He doesn’t owe me anything, but equally, a simple ‘good morning’ wouldn’t go amiss.

At the usual time, I go and make his coffee and edge his door open slowly. The soft tap of his fingers against laptop keys is the only sound breaking through the icy silence. What went wrong, Brendon? I silently scream at him. What did he say to you?

I place the mug down on his coaster and hover for a moment. I’m waiting for those four familiar words to fall from his lips that I hear every single morning the second that I place that same mug upon that same coaster.

He doesn’t say them.

I desperately want to start the conversation. I want to possess that courage, that confidence to pen the opening dialogue to this scene in the sitcom that is our ongoing story. I open my mouth to speak but no words come out and he looks up at me. When his eyes meet mine, I know that my own are full of an unspeakable sadness that he recognises and understands but refuses to fix. I’m left with the overwhelming feeling that his father didn’t say or do anything at all and that unknowingly, it was me. It was all me.

I leave his office and only re-enter whenever he buzzes me. I come and go without making eye-contact. I can’t bear it. I can’t face up to the thought that for some reason, I am no longer somebody that he wants. I’m not ‘Bennett’ or ‘Mere’ anymore. I’m just Meredith. His temporary secretary. My God - why on Earth did I let him get to me?

He leaves before I do that evening. As he walks past my desk, he pauses and for a moment, I think that he’s going to speak to me. He looks like he wants to. In his eyes, I read the word ‘sorry’ but I can’t let myself believe it until I hear it from his mouth.

I suppose I’ll have to go on hurting just a little bit longer, because he decides against speaking at all and just heads for the elevator without a second glance.

Once the metal doors slide closed behind him and I’m left alone on the top floor of the beautiful crystalline skyscraper in the centre of Manhattan - the peak of wealth and elitism and dreams - I cry and cry and cry until I have no tears left.

 


	8. No Holding Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, you beautiful people.
> 
> I’m back again, with the chapter that I’ve been dying to write for so long. It didn’t turn out exactly how I originally planned but I still like it anyway and I hope you do too. 
> 
> I’m way too tired to proof-read right now so I do apologise if there’s any typos.
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think and leave me some Kudos. I really appreciate it.
> 
> Enjoy!   
> Olivia

It’s funny how life can change so quickly. It’s funny how something, somewhere, someone you once loved can become something, somewhere, someone you hate in the blink of an eye, and all you’re left with is a hollow ache in your chest and the memories of experiences past. You try to learn from it. You try to let it teach you a lesson and you tell yourself that everything happens for a reason, but I’m not too sure I believe in that anymore. I think that people can just be dicks and they can ruin happy places or things for you just because they can. They take pleasure in your misery. They like to run you down so they can remain on top.

I don’t go into work on Wednesday.

Calling the main switchboard, I nervously drum my fingernails on my kitchen countertop. I give the receptionist all the necessary details and make up some story about an unbearable migraine. She’s sympathetic and says that she’ll personally pass the issue onto Mr Urie and hopes that I’m feeling better soon. When I hang up, I get this overwhelming urge to sit on my kitchen floor, knees hunched up to my chest, my arms holding myself together. So I do - and I sit there for a long time, staring at nothing, thinking of nothing. I feel so foolish. I feel like this isn’t a good enough reason to be taking time off of work. I’m just upset over a boy who doesn’t like me back. Since when was that a valid excuse for a sick day?

I lie in bed for most of the day. I read some of my favourite books in attempts to cheer myself up, but not even Scout Finch or Jo March can console me today. I don’t know why, but a tiny part of myself - the part that can’t seem to shake off her optimism - is silently hoping that he’ll call, just to see if I’m alright. Am I selfish for wanting that? Is it wrong of me to expect it? I wish that my distractions were working. I wish that his name didn’t ring in my ears day and night like tinnitus. More than anything, I wish I hadn’t let myself believe that he was one of those rare breeds of men - the last of the real ones.

I retire to bed early that night and rise feeling even more awful than I did the day before, consumed with dread at the thought of having to return to my desk and watch him go about his day like I don’t even exist. I can’t call in sick again - I can’t afford to - so I put on a brave face, simultaneously applying my lip gloss and forced smile and I leave before my resolve falters and I jump back into bed again.

On the subway, I make a silent pact with myself that no matter what he says, or doesn’t say, I won’t let it affect my job. I’ll take it all with a pinch of salt and I’ll just grin and bear it. If this is the way it’s going to be, then I have to accept that. Besides, I seem to so often forget just _why_ I’m here in the first place. He was never supposed to become somebody that I trusted in the first place.

The morning passes me by in its usual fashion. When he arrives, I go to make him his coffee. I take it to him and I bite my tongue when he doesn’t look up from his laptop, not even to say thank you. He buzzes me into his office around eleven to explain that he needs to do his rounds of the lower floors today - and he would appreciate my company.

The proposal throws me off and I can tell that my face must change before he laughs coldly.

“Why do you look so confused?” he asks.

I can’t exactly tell him the truth. _‘Well, Brendon, since your father paid you a visit at the start of the week, you’ve totally fucking ghosted me. You’ve stopped asking your silly little questions in the morning which you know I loved just as much as you did. You pretend that I don’t even exist - hell, did you even notice that I wasn’t here yesterday? Did you even care? I guess that’s why I’m confused that all of a sudden, you’d ‘appreciate my company’ because these past few days, I haven’t felt like ‘company’ at all to you. I’ve felt like a God damn stranger.’_

“No reason,” I tell him.

“Right...” he replies offhandedly. “Well, try to smile more.”

In that moment, I make a mental note to frown as much as possible around him. This _dick_.

He dismisses me and then, about an hour later, comes and stands in front of my desk, drumming his fingertips against the top of it.

I don’t address him. It’s rather fun to give him a taste of his own medicine.

He clears his throat and I still don’t look up from my computer monitor. I continue to type away, but words don’t come easily when I know that he’s looming over me, most likely with pure annoyance burning his pupils blind.

“Meredith,” he says.

I decline to acknowledge him. So he tries again. This time, with more fire.

“Meredith.”

I can’t keep playing this little game forever, as enjoyable as it is. I pause for a beat and then look up with a devilish smirk upon my lips.

“Want something?” I ask him.

“Oh you little-” he begins but he thinks better of it. My God, I think to myself, I want nothing more than to be beneath him right now.

His ‘rounds’ consist of dropping by countless departments, scattered across different floors and calling in on the executives of said departments, chatting for a long while with themabout the most random of topics. I watch on as he makes aimless small-talk with men ten or twenty years his senior who are desperate to talk with this young, handsome man like he’s their best friend, their drinking buddy, their partner to the Mets game. I _know_  Brendon doesn’t give two shits about their stories judging by the look upon his face. But he’s humble and he’s polite and he laughs at their jokes like a gentleman.

On the rare occasion that the conversation focuses upon actual work, I scribble down notes in my jotter, things that Brendon can remember to follow up on later, when he has more time. For the first time, I feel like I’m really doing my job. I’m doing something productive. Something worthwhile.

As we ride the elevator together down to Floor 15, my old home, the home to which I am sure I will soon return, I glance at him. He notices it, and comments.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I answer truthfully, because honestly, I just wanted to look at him.

When the doors open and we step out, I don’t think either one of us expects to see all of the interns huddled around one particular computer, laughing at something unbeknownst to the pair of us. When one of them clocks Brendon and I striding towards the desk, they immediately disperse like disgraced children. I glance up at my boss and I swear, I’ve never seen him look so furious. I don’t know what’s about to go down, but I’m not sure I’m going to like it.

“What were you watching?” Brendon asks the collective. They all stand their with their tails between their legs, heads down, avoiding eye contact. I look across to Hannah. She gives me a look that I can’t quite decipher.

“Well will one of you fucking answer me?” he adds, raising his voice. I wish I could reach out and remind him where he is and who he’s talking to - these people work for him - but I’m too nervous to move.

When nobody says anything, he strides over to the computer and reads over what’s there on the screen. From where I’m stood, I can’t see what it is, but the way his eyes widen and his nostrils flare, I know that it’s nothing good.

“Right, I’m sick of this,” he starts, strongly marching to the middle of the room, standing there like a teacher addressing his naughty class. “I do not pay you all to stand around and waste your time on the Internet. I pay you to work. You got that? Huh?”

The tension in the air is palpable. Brendon continues on his rampage - relentless.

“This firm is one of the hardest fucking places to get into it and some of you treat it like it’s summer camp. You think that I don’t know what goes on down here? You think I don’t have people tell me when you’re all slacking? I think some of you seem to forget that everybody is disposable in this room. Everybody.”

I’ve never seen Brendon so fired up before. I’ve heard horror stories about how his father treated his employees, how he’d tread all over them, treat them like they’re dirt beneath his shoe, belittle them over the smallest mistakes. I hate to admit it, but this fire pouring out of Brendon right now is the Urie blood boiling up inside of him.

“You!” he shouts, pointing to one particular boy who honestly doesn’t look much older than twenty one. His suit is ill-fitting. His tie is slightly askew. His eyes widen when Brendon calls upon him.

“Pack up your things,” the man says coldly. A look of complete and utter devastation crosses over the victim’s face.

“Mr Urie, I... I wasn’t even watching the video, I-”

“Did you not hear me?” Brendon continues. “Go on. Get out of here. You’re done.”

I watch the boy sadly begin to gather up his measly belongings and rage starts to flicker deep within my gut. I don’t care what was on that computer screen - the way that Brendon just handled this situation was highly unprofessional and quite frankly, I’m done with it. I’m done with _him_ acting this way. Enough is enough.

“Everybody’s disposable,” he echoes his sentiment. “And I am not somebody that you can walk all over, regardless of what that email says.”

Angrily, he crosses by me and strides towards the elevator. I follow him without a second thought, but not because I’m his little lapdog, because I’m angry with him - furious - and I need to give him a God damn piece of my mind.

“What the fuck was that?” I explode the moment that his office door is closed behind me.

He crosses over to his liquor tray and pours himself a glass of scotch, sighing. How dare he just fob me off like this? I’m stood here shaking with rage and all he can do is seemingly shrug me off and drink.

“Hey! Don’t just ignore me. I’m sick of this. It’s bullshit.”

“Meredith, if you’re going to give me a lecture, you can save it. Please,” he huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose. I’m not ‘saving’ anything. I’m not holding back anymore. He’s kept me quiet for long enough.

“God damn right I’m giving you a lecture,” I argue. “You do know that that boy could go and find a lawyer now and file a wrongful termination suit against you? You had no basis to fire him.”

“So what? Kid was probably flying by the seat of his pants the entire time he was here anyway.”

“My God! What the fuck has gotten into you, huh? What did you dad say that fucked you up so bad that you turned into such an asshole overnight?”

When he doesn’t call me out, I’m a little surprised, but I continue all the same. I will do until he stops me or admits to his wrongdoing and nothing in between.

“You can’t just go around treating people like this!” I scream at him. He puts down his glass and crosses the room so that he’s stood right in front of me. I don’t stop. I have too much that I need to say.

“These people, regardless of whether they’re Floor 5 or Floor 45 - they _work_ for you - and they work damn hard, believe me, and right now, you are doing nothing but feeding the narrative that you are a self-obsessed egotistical dickhead who puts other people down for no reason other than the fact that he just _can_!”

“Meredith-” he tries. I ignore him.

“You were way too fucking hard on those interns just then. I don’t care what they were laughing at. You don’t speak to your employees like that. Would you speak to me like that? Because I was one of them a couple of weeks ago. I was on their level.”

“Meredith-”

“No, actually, you wouldn’t. Because you haven’t been speaking to me at all, have you, Brendon? You’ve just left me hanging here, and you’ve made me second guess my every move because for a moment, I really thought we were getting somewhere. I thought we were making progress! And my God, you really had me fooled. I really thought that we-”

“Meredith-”

“ _WHAT?!_ ”

He stares right into my eyes and I swear I can see right through to his soul.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

Those words leave his lips and my walls just crumble.

“ _Please_ ,” is all I manage.

Everything moves so fast after that. Roughly, his hands are upon my face, cupping my cheeks, and his mouth crashes against my own. White noise rings in my ears as we kiss and kiss and kiss and nothing else in the world even matters anymore.

It’s driven by lust and anger and an inane desire for one another, stronger than anything else I’ve ever felt before. With ease, I jump up into his arms and he supports me. My legs secure themselves around his waist. We don’t even pause for breath as he blindly carries me over to the desk and with one swift movement of his hand, slides everything upon it onto the floor with a terrible crash.

He chucks me down against it, and everything is a mess of limbs and tongue and heat. Before I know it, his hands are tangled up in my hair and mine tug on his dress shirt desperately. I can’t seem to get him close enough. He kisses me until my lungs burn with a _need_ for oxygen and the. all of a sudden, like a bullet out a gun, I catch myself. Fuck. What in God’s name am I doing?

I make a noise of protest against his lips and untie myself from him.

“No,” I say, “stop.”

I push him off and he stands there panting, breathless, eyes blown wide with confusion. He makes no attempt to restart anything.

“Not here,” I explain myself. “Not like this.”

This is so wrong. This is all so wrong. I can’t stay in here a minute longer. I jump down off of his desk and rush for the door. I desperately need air. I need to be anywhere that isn’t here, in this room, with him and his unbelievably mouth.

“Meredith!” I hear him call after me as I bolt, but I’m gone. I opt for the stairs, running down flight after flight until my legs feel like they may give way beneath me and I have to stop. Collapsing against a cold wall, I heave out aching breaths and pull my kegs up to my chest, burying my face against my knees.

Holy shit, Meredith. What the fuck did you just do?


	9. In Case You Change Your Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello, all. 
> 
> How are you? I hope that you're all well. I'm sorry that it's been a few days since my last update. Over the weekend, I moved into my university accommodation and I've kind of been wrapped up in the whirlwind of getting to know new people and just generally settle in. My classes don't begin til next Monday, but I have quite a bit of required reading to do before they start, so I will have to prioritise that over fic writing - but I've managed to get this done for you, and quite honestly, I'm very proud with how this turned out. I really love some of the imagery and phrases I've used in here, and I hope that you do too. 
> 
> Once school starts, I will probably only be able to update perhaps once a week. I'll aim to have this at a regular time on a set day, but it might not work out that way. We shall see. But regardless, I will definitely keep writing this whenever I can. Writing this story keeps my creativity fueled and focuses my mind, so if anything, it will be beneficial to my studies. It'll be my down time. 
> 
> As always, please leave me some comments on what you think of this chapter, thoughts on what may happen next, or maybe where you would like to the story to go! I will always take those into consideration and who knows, they may even influence future chapters of this fanfiction!
> 
> Finally, please tap the fuck outta that Kudos button. It helps me gain new readers and just generally reach a wider audience! I really appreciate it. 
> 
> With all that said, sit back, relax and enjoy!
> 
> All my love,   
> Olivia

I’m fully aware that I can’t sit here forever, as appealing as that sounds. I wish that life had a pause button. I’d stop it like a DVD and just be alone with my thoughts for a while. All I need is some time to  _ process _ , but it’s hard to do that when you feel like you’re stuck on a rollercoaster that isn’t slowing down. If anything, there’s a glitch in the system and the ride is trapped in an endless loop and I’m going round and round without a second to just stop and  _ breathe _ . Nothing makes any sense. Half of me wants to be with him right now, kissing him again, feeling his breath against my skin, and the other half of me never wants to see him again. 

But why? He didn’t do anything wrong. He gave me what I wanted - what I  _ asked _ for - and I can’t justify taking out my confusion on him. He doesn’t deserve that. What I  _ can _ do, however, is hold him accountable for the way he’d been treating me, right up until our lips met. I hope to God that he doesn’t think one little (but not-that-little) kiss will magically make me forget about the averted eyes whenever I walked into the room, the lack of manners, the unexplained breakdown of communication between the both of us. 

I know that I need to confront him. Cleaning the wound hurts, and it’s hard to do, but ultimately, once the initial sting has dissipated, it helps and maybe we can begin to repair what has become broken. What scares me most, however, is that there was nothing there to break in the first place. Am I getting too ahead of myself? I have this sinking feeling, deep down in the pit of my stomach, that all of this - whatever  _ this _ is - means far more to me than it ever did to him. 

Taking a deep breath, I stand, and I tug down my skirt and smooth out the wrinkles in my shirt. I take my hair out of its tie and let it fall down the back of my neck in gentle waves. My mind casts itself back to when he’d told me that I’d look more ‘professional’ with my hair down and I can’t help but smile at the silly memory. Why did everything have to be so complicated now? Couldn’t we just go back to being Brendon & Bennett - boss and secretary - pure and simple? I hate how blurred the lines have become, because it makes it so difficult to colour inside of them. I’m terrified of accidentally pushing boundaries. I’m terrified of the waviness of it all, because I have always been somebody who craves definition, and whilst I don’t know exactly what we are right now, I know we are most definitely not defined. Not even close. 

Ascending the flights of stairs down which I had taken my leave, I remind myself of all the reasons why, even if he makes me feel so completely brand new, this can never be. I run down my mental list, repeating it once, then twice. He’s proven that he’s able to knock down my defences with nothing more than a soft breath, so I build them back up sevenfold, securing foundations that not even the Big Bad Wolf could destroy. It’s not that complicated, really. I’m super into this guy, but I can’t let him in. If I do, the world could end. 

I don’t knock upon his door. We’re past that now. When he sees me, his entire expression softens and he stands. He almost looks afraid to approach me. No, not afraid -  _ cautious _ \- like I’m some rare breed or species that he desperately wants to get closer to but is petrified of scaring away. 

On the walk up here, I’d planned everything that I wanted to say to him. Now I’m here, and he’s staring at me with that doe-eyed expression that he pulls off so well and I can’t remember a single thing. Damn him, I think to myself. Damn him to hell - just as long as he takes me with him. 

Slowly, he rises from his desk and I hold my breath. I wish that I was able to tear my eyes away from his. Maybe then finding the right words wouldn’t be so difficult. 

I’m beyond grateful that he speaks up first. 

“Do you want to talk?” he asks me.

Yes. Yes, I do want to talk, I think to myself. I just don’t remember how ‘talking’ works. 

“This -  _ us _ \- it can’t happen,” I tell him straight. If I’m unable to say no more, at least I’ve told him that.

All he says in return is, “okay.”

We can’t leave it like that. Everything feels so unfinished. He stands a few feet ahead of me, not daring to come closer. I’m glad that he doesn’t. I don’t know if I’d able to stop myself from kissing him senseless if he did.

When I’m nervous, I tend to ramble. I figure that if words fire like bullets from my lips, then nobody else can get a word in edgeways and I won’t have to be told how much I screw everything up simply by opening my mouth.

“I’m just… I’m not looking for a relationship right now. Or an anything-ship, actually. Not to mention it’s highly unprofessional. I mean, you’re my boss. Can you imagine the rumours that this would start? So we just… we can’t go there, you understand? We can’t go there.”

Again, the only word that he mutters is a soft, “okay.”

I desperately want him to say more than ‘okay’. I need him to figure out that this isn’t what I really want. All I want is for him to lift me up into his arms and carry me over to his desk and kiss me until I’m all out of oxygen. Come on, Brendon, I silently beg. You’re a smart man. One of the smartest men I know, actually. Read the signs. Work it out. 

Fight for me.  _ Please. _

He stays very quiet and looks at me with this peculiar sort of look that is almost egging me on to say something more - like he knows I’m on the verge of breaking and if he just stares at me long enough with those God damn beautiful brown eyes, then it’ll all spill forth from me like a tidal wave. 

But little does he know that I’m stronger than I look, and no brown eyes, no matter how divine, will get me to crack. 

So I simply say, “okay,” and I turn to go. I’ve said my piece. I can do no more. 

“Meredith,” he murmurs as my hand rests upon the door handle. I could listen to him say my name like that for forever. 

I hum in response and turn to look at him. 

“If this relationship is purely professional, I need you to send some emails for me.” He holds out some papers and I go to take them. It’s the closest we’ve been since we kissed and it’s almost like I can feel an electric current passing through the paper from his hand to my own.

“Of course,” I say gently with a soft smile. “I’ll get on them right away.”

Leaving makes my heart ache. I guess that’s what we have to be from now on. Purely professional. I told him that was what I wanted and he listened. I can’t be angry at him for giving me exactly what I asked for - and the fact that he hasn’t pressured me into changing my mind - even if deep down that’s secretly what I want - shows to me that he is nothing like what I’d heard. He’s kind. He’s understanding. He’s respectful. He’s a gentleman. 

I return to my desk and immediately set to work on the emails. The afternoon passes in a bit of a blur. It dawns on me at about two that I haven’t eaten anything for lunch but unsurprisingly, I don’t have much of an appetite. I know that when I finish my assigned work, I should probably ask Brendon if there are any other outstanding tasks he’d like me to complete as a priority, but I do my own thing instead. Suddenly, it’s like I can’t face him. Maybe I’ve been wrong about myself all along. Maybe he will break me. One more look at his gorgeous face and I’ll crumble. Keep your distance, Meredith, I tell myself. Distract yourself. Go home and sort yourself out. He’s just a man, after all. There will be other men. Plenty more fish in the sea, as my mother always used to say - but right now, I’m thinking that maybe I’d rather spend the rest of my life swimming around in an empty ocean than try and find somebody new. 

Five o’clock comes and goes and I don’t even realise. I’m too wrapped up in whatever email I’m currently drafting to notice. Only when Brendon emerges from his office at ten to six am I pulled back to my senses. 

I look up at him when he walks by me - of course I do - and I watch as he places a small slip of white paper, folded in half, right in front of me on my desk. Silently, he departs, and I watch him as he steps into the elevator and the doors close behind him. 

When he’s gone, I tenderly take the paper between my fingertips, handling it as if it’s the host, and unfold it, reading the words that he has printed across it in his signature, block capital style. It takes me a second to register that it’s his address that’s written upon the note, followed by the words:

 

_ Just in case you change your mind.  _

 

I remain silent for a moment, just sitting with that information, unsure of what to do with it. The weaker part of me, the part of me that has the most ridiculous schoolgirl-like crush just wants to rush round there right now. She doesn’t want to think about the consequences. She doesn’t give a fuck. But alas, she’s outweighed by the rational, practical side of me who knows that this will only end in disaster. It isn’t worth it.  _ He _ isn’t worth it.

I hold that information in my head for two whole days. Every time that I have to talk to him, bring him his coffee, tour the building with him, I am reminded of those seven words that he scrawled. How can he be selfish enough to leave a decision as momentous as this with  _ me _ ? It’s wholly unfair. What am I supposed to do? Here he is, giving me the option. I can take it or leave it - but he’s left it completely up to me. My God, why does he have to do the things that he does? Why does he have to affect me as greatly as he does? Why can’t I fall asleep at night without the sound of his voice ringing in my ears? 

When I finish work on Friday night, I head straight home. I know that I can’t go out and dine on an evening meal of red wine, as tempting as that may be, or the night will most certainly end with a bad decision. So, sensibly, I ride the subway directly to my apartment and I make dinner and take a shower and my God, for about an hour, his name doesn’t cross my mind. Maybe I do have the strength to do this. Maybe I can be the strong-willed, determined, headstrong Meredith that I’ve always believed I’ve been when in reality, I’ve never been that Meredith and will  _ never  _ be that Meredith because that Meredith doesn’t exist. 

It’s ten o’clock and I’m lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, and all I can think about his him, and the way his lips felt against mine, and how his hands tangled themselves up so perfectly in my hair and how I have never wanted anything more in my life than  _ him _ . 

At ten thirty, I knock upon his apartment door. When he opens it, the anxiety and guilt that I felt the entire journey over here fades to nothing. All that I can see is him, standing there, shrouded in background light, the top few buttons of his dress shirt undone, tie gone, and a certain look in his eyes that I can only read as, ‘I knew you’d come.’

Words fail me simply by looking at him, but I have to say something. I have to explain. I say the only thing that will work right now - the only four words that I seem to remember.

“I changed my mind,” I breathe. 

Slowly, his lips quirk up into a gentle smile. He fully opens the door and stands aside, granting me access - his silent agreeal that he needs me just as much as I need him. And in a gruff voice, his eyes clouding over with something unreadable, he murmurs three simple words, and I am his. In that moment, I am completely and utterly his. 

“Get in here.”


	10. Letting Him Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello there! I'm so sorry that it's been so long. 
> 
> As I have mentioned more than once, I'm living at university now and man, these last two weeks have been WILD, so I'm so sorry that there hasn't been an update recently. It didn't help that I also had the worst writer's block and as a result of that, this chapter is more of a filler than anything, but chapters from here on out should be much easier to write, because I have more of an idea of where I want the story to go. 
> 
> So all in all, I profusely apologise for my lack of activity, and I am going to plan to get one chapter up a week every week from here on out. It'll probably be a Sunday that I update, but not always. I don't know, man. I'm the worst at organisation. 
> 
> I hope you like this, regardless. Please press that Kudos button, even if you don't have an AO3 account - and maybe leave a comment? It all helps me out so much!
> 
> Lots of love, always,   
> Olivia

My eyes struggle to adjust to the sunlight as it lazily creeps over the window ledge and pours across my face like liquid gold. All I feel is warmth and soft sheets - that aren’t silk, which is what rouses me, because my own  _ are  _ silk - so where am I? 

Sleepily, I roll over and when I see him lying there beside me, eyes closed, the night before comes back to me so vividly. It’s not hazy or incoherent, despite the j ä eger shots I downed before leaving my apartment to fill me with some liquid confidence - it’s clear as day, and so wonderful that I want to bottle it up and keep its memory as fresh as it is right now, forever. 

It feels like replaying your favourite movie in your head, the one that you know every word to, the one that you could remember front to back and back to front. I look at him and I have never felt so overwhelming lucky to have had him in the way that I had him last night, so why does guilt gnaw away in the pit of my stomach, and why, despite feeling so warm, so happy, so complete, why do I have this undeniable urge to jump up out of his bed and run and run and run until I’m so far gone that I won’t be able to find my way back to him? 

I don’t want to wake him. He looks so unbelievably peaceful when he’s sleeping. I note how long his eyelashes are, and how they almost meet his cheeks. I watch as his chest rises and falls in a gentle rhythm and take a mental screenshot of his hair, falling across his pillows like raven’s feathers. My God, I think to myself, he’s so fucking beautiful. 

I knew that coming here would be a mistake. Even before it happened, on the cab ride over last night, I knew that I’d wake up this morning wracked with that all-too-familiar feeling of utter regret.

I lie there just watching him for a while, and as I do, it dawns on me that I’m Eve, and he’s my forbidden fruit. I never should have been tempted. I should have kept my distance, my composure. I should have known that I’d never be strong enough to make this a one time thing. Now that I’ve had him once, I’ll keep wanting him again and again for the rest of my life. 

I contemplate sneaking out before he even wakes, leaving him with nothing more than the memory of our time together, and as much as I would love to be that girl, the kind of girl that can tangle herself up in relationships but free herself just as easily, she’s just not me. When I fall, I fall  _ hard _ , and the whole ‘no-strings-attached’ idea has just never been one I could roll with. I wish I could. Life would be so much easier. 

Then again, if he does wake, how do I know that I’ll ever be able to leave? I can’t guarantee that this won’t happen all over again and again and again until I become so caught up in him that he just gives me his spare front door key. In that moment I realise that my only option is to leave before he wakes up, because if I stay, if I get to kiss him ‘good morning’ and look into his wonderful eyes just one more time, I won’t stand a fucking chance. 

I’ve never been one who can let go of things easily. I hold grudges, hands, hearts. Slipping silently out of his bed and tiptoeing across his bedroom floor, gathering up my clothes along the way, my heart slips deep into a pool of black, and I feel so unbelievably sad. I dress quickly in his kitchen. I try to make as little noise as possible. I realise as I’m putting on my shoes that I can’t leave like this, with no explanation, no proper goodbye. I know that if it was the other way around, and he did this to me, I’d feel completely broken, so how I feel justified in doing it to him is lost on me. By his front door is a small display table, and upon that, a guest book, a pen, and some plain A5 paper with an official ‘Urie & Son’ letterhead. Taking up the pen, I scrawl a quick note across the paper.

 

_ B, _

 

_ I’m sorry, but if I don’t leave now, I don’t think I ever will. _

_ Thank you for a night that I am sure I’m never going to forget - a night that I think you can agree we’ve both seen coming for a long time. _

_ I’ll see you at work on Monday. _

 

_ Love,  _

_ Mere _

 

Satisfied with the message, I rip the paper from its pad and place it upon his kitchen table, somewhere that I know he’ll see it, and then I head for the door, but a light scurrying across hardwood floor makes me gasp and I turn to see a small dog, a Jack Russell, wagging their tail and looking up at me expectantly. How had I not noticed this adorable creature last night? Had I really been  _ that  _ wrapped up in Brendon?

“Hey little one,” I whisper, reaching down to ruffle the fur around the dog’s neck. “I’m just leaving, actually. Dad’s in there. Go on. Go to him.” I point in the direction of Brendon’s bedroom, in hopes that the dog will rush off into there. It does, and I watch on with a smile. Hopefully waking up to puppy kisses will be a worthy substitute for my own. I don’t hang around any longer - I go before I change my mind, and hate myself every second of the subway journey home. 

 

*******

  
  


On Monday morning, Brendon arrives early. 

Brendon never arrives early.

When he sees me sat at my desk, gently, he extends a hand. It’s such a soft gesture. When I place my hand atop of his own, he lightly clasps it, and he guides me into his office like a gentleman would, and my heart is already aching, because I know that no matter what goes down next, I can’t succumb to him. We had one perfect night. We need to let it remain as just one perfect night. 

Once his office door is closed, he drops my hand. 

“Come,” he says gently, with the sweetest, most well-meaning smile stretching across his lips. He gestures towards the chair. “Sit.”

I do as he asks and watch as he crosses around the desk to sit on the other side. I hope to God we’re not about to have some formal meeting about what happened. I don’t think I could bear it.

“Can we talk?” he asks plainly, and suddenly, that sweet little smile of his is gone. He doesn’t look pissed, though. He looks incredibly sad.

“Sure,” I reply softly, already feeling awful. I never should have snuck out. How could I have done that to him?

“Do you, uhm… do you…” he struggles to find his words and I realise that this is the first time I have ever seen this man stammer. He’s always the one who is so in control, who always knows what to say. And yet, here he is in front of me, unable to make eye contact, all words failing him. 

“Do I what?” I offer, and gently, because I can, but also because I want to, I reach forward and lay my hand on top of his own. 

“Do you regret it?”

The second those words have left his mouth, I want to reach across the table and kiss him senseless, because I don’t think anything I say can be enough right now. 

“Not one bit,” I reassure him, and mean every damn word I say.

We just look at one another for a moment. I don’t think it’s that long, but it feels like eternity. I think I know deep down, in that singular exchange, that whatever we have isn’t completely over yet, as much as I need it to be. This is only the beginning.

He slowly pulls his hand away from mine, but not in such a way that suggests that he’s uncomfortable. He stands, and I do too. I like us to be equals. 

Unbuttoning his suit jacket, he crosses back around the table to me, standing so close that I can smell his cologne and hear his breath. I have never wanted to kiss him more than I want to kiss him right now. There is something so painful lying in the fact that I can’t. 

“I don’t want that to be the end of this,” he admits bravely, and his fingertips brush against my wrist. The touch is so simple, but it has my breath catching in my throat. I need him this close to me forever. I need him to be mine and only mine. Why is this so fucking difficult?

“Brendon, please,” I murmur desperately, and even though it hurts me to do so, I take a step back and separate him from me. We need to tangle this. Us. 

“Hey,” he coos gently, taking my hand into his own. “Meredith… Mere, darling, look at me.” With two fingers, he tilts my chin to face him, but this is too much, and the only thought searing through my mind like wildfire is that if he knew my last name, he wouldn’t be standing within a mile of me. 

“We can’t do this, B,” I say with certainty. I’m done with weakness. The visual image of him discovering who I am, and the look upon his face, is enough for me to keep my distance, and the more walls of mine that I allow him to knock down, the higher is the chance of that becoming my reality.

“Why not?” he asks me. He’s not defensive or angry or anything else that I have come to expect from white men that I say no to. He’s just curious. And sad. He sounds so sad.

“I just… I can’t do it, okay? I’m not looking for a relationship. It’s not what I want.”

Looking into his eyes, it’s like I can feel his heart breaking and fuck, I think, in any other world, my love. In any other world. I cup his cheek in my hand and he nuzzles into it. I’ve come to learn that this feeling never goes away, no matter how old you get, or how many people you feel it for. When you find the right person, you will always feel the overwhelming, all-consuming emotion of a schoolgirl or schoolboy crush. It’s even harder when you know that is all it can ever amount to: just a crush. 

“I’m not gonna try and change your mind if it’s already made up,” he tells me. “I’m not gonna stand here and demand that we be a thing. I’m not that guy. If you don’t want this, I can’t say it doesn’t hurt, but I respect that.”

In that moment, I do all that I can think to do. I wrap my arms tight around his chest, and I give him the biggest hug. I’ve never hugged him before. It feels so safe and warm and right - like he’s the person I’m meant to hug like this for the rest of my Goddamn life. 

When we part, I take a deep breath, and upon my exhale, I expel all of my feelings as best as I can.

“Purely professional?” I offer, extending my hand.

With a curt nod, Brendon shakes it. “Purely professional.”

It breaks my heart to leave this behind, whatever ‘this’ could have been, but I know that it’s what I need to do. It’s what’s best for both of us. And with time, we’ll get over it. I know we will. We’ll move onto other people. This was never, ever meant to be. How could it? We’re supposed to be sworn enemies.

As I leave his office, I try to do so with my head held high, but it’s so hard. I can’t tell whether I’ve dodged a bullet or just lost the love of my life. Only time will tell, I suppose, so I return to my desk, and I reply to emails, and I try desperately not to dwell upon him, and how I would give everything I have to kiss him just one more time.

That, however, is easier said than done.


	11. Finding A Distraction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello, you lovely people. 
> 
> I am SO sorry for not uploading in a little while. The only excuse I can give you, as pitiful as it sounds, is that I've just been very, very busy. Who knew that you had to read about fifty pages a week for university as well as making notes and going to class? My mind is so fried - and as I am sure you can all understand, I need to prioritise my degree over my fanfiction.
> 
> As well as this, I seem to have a little bit of a wall with this story. I know how I eventually want it to progress, but I've just hit a little patch that's hard to write because it's well, to me, a little bit boring? So I'm sorry for that - but bear with me! This story is far from its climax just yet, and there is plenty more exciting stuff to come. 
> 
> This chapter is a little shorter and perhaps, again, a bit of a filler, but the next chapter that I have planned is one of my favourites so far so stay tuned! Hopefully it won't take as long to get it up as this one did as I have a) a lot more muse now and b) a lot more time!
> 
> Please leave Kudos and comments as always. God damn, I love you guys. 
> 
> Okay, that's all for now!  
> Love, Olivia

 

A couple of days after my conversation with Brendon, I drive out to the suburbs to visit my father. Nowadays, I try to visit him as little as humanly possible without him catching on. The less I see him, the less questions he’s able to ask me. The drive over is pleasant enough, at least. Living in the city, I don’t get to use my car enough. I’d actually forgotten how much I enjoy driving, with my music playing and my windows rolled down and the scent of petrichor strong in the air.

Of course, Dad is eager to be caught up on everything he has missed about my time spent at Urie & Son. Of course, I don’t endeavour to tell him that last weekend, I slept with the CEO. I keep my descriptions as vague as possible. I tell him that things are great, that I’m learning more about the company every day - essentially, I tell him everything that he  _ wants  _ to hear, even if it isn’t all completely true. 

“So,” he begins later that evening after dinner, as he pours himself another glass of red wine, “tell me, if you’re his Personal Secretary, he must trust you, yes?”

Reluctantly, I nod. “I suppose.”

“Interesting,” he smirks devilishly, and I feel a little bile rise up in my throat. He’s always plotting something. Doesn’t it get tiring always wanting to get one-up on your enemy?

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, trying my hardest to sound neutral. 

“It just means that soon, I may need you to start abusing that trust of his, okay? Is that something that you think you can do?”

I think about betraying Brendon, about using him to my advantage, like some pawn in play, and I feel absolutely terrible. No, Dad, I want to tell him, no I don’t think that’s something I can do, because Brendon Urie is one of the kindest, most well-meaning men that I have yet to meet and maybe you’d realise that too if you were able to fucking let go of this age-old grudge that even you can’t remember the origin of. 

But of course, I can’t say any of that. My God, I wish I could. I really, really wish I could.

“Sure, Dad,” I murmur, the words stinging my throat as they rise, “whatever you need.”

When a pause follows, I very nearly get up and announce that I should be heading back, but unfortunately, he beats me to it, and starts up a conversation again, but this time, the topic is new.

“You remember Stanley and Geraldine, don’t you?” he asks me. 

I nod. “Of course.” They’d been friends of the family for as long as I could recall. Geraldine had gone to college with my mother. We’d shared many a summer barbeque with them as I grew up. 

“And their son, Henry,” Dad continues. 

Oh yes, I think to myself. I remember Henry. He was a year my senior. An only child, he was spoiled but not to the point of arrogance. He was charming and witty and confident, even from the tender age of eight, which was my earliest memory of him, although I must have known of him before. Like me, he spent the majority of his time tucked away in some quaint little boarding school in what little countryside the outskirts of the state of New York possessed. It was something that bonded us every summer, for when we would both return, we would spend countless summer nights together, either he in my backyard or I in his, and whilst our parents would chat and laugh and sip expensive wine, we’d squirrel ourselves away into shrubby corners and talk and talk and talk until the sun disappeared and we were found by our amused, tipsy mothers. 

Everything was golden back then. I don’t look back on those days very often. I actively try not to, if I’m being honest. There’s no use dwelling on times that are better than the present, because it only brings you down, as you start to yearn for that lost part of yourself that was so much more hopeful and optimistic and  _ happy. _

Snapping myself out of my reverie, I return to the room and nod my head. “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I remember Henry. He recently graduated from Yale?”

“Harvard,” Dad corrects me. “He’s working for his father’s firm now, naturally. I hear he’s doing well for himself.”

“Well you would,” I comment flippantly, “if your father is the head of the company.”

Dad doesn’t respond to that with words, but merely gives me a telling look that I’m getting too big for my boots. I shrink back a little and regret ever trying to be funny. He makes me feel like my humour is always inappropriate. At least Brendon actually laughs at the things I say.

“Is this conversation leading somewhere?” I ask him with a sigh, trying to steer things back in a somewhat pleasant direction. 

“It is, actually. I was speaking with Stanley over lunch the other day and I’ve been asked upon his son’s behalf if you’d let him take you out to dinner sometime.”

I physically feel my eyes widen a little and my eyebrows furrow. “Excuse me?”

“It’s simple enough, Mere, darling. What’s not to understand?” he laughs lightheartedly. 

“No, I… I understand what you’re asking,” I reply, “what I don’t get is why  _ you’re _ the one asking.”

My father shrugs as he sips his wine. “He’s nervous,” he answers plainly. “He hasn’t seen you since you were both teenagers - but he wants to catch up with you and see if there’s still some… chemistry there. You were rather close as kids, after all.”  
“Dad, please.”

He smirks again and shakes his head. In little playful moments like this, I’m reminded of the man that he once was - the man that carried me sleeping from the car up to bed after long days in the city, the man who read me my favourite bedtime story over and over again, long after he grew sick of it - the man who raised me to be the woman that I am today. 

“Alright,” he insists, “I’ll leave it. But just give him a call, okay? Or a text. Or something. He’s a good kid. It could be good for you to find some common ground with somebody from your past - somebody who knows you. I understand that it must be difficult for you right now, seeing as you can’t let yourself grow close to anybody at work in that way.”

I lower my head. I’m scared that if he looks into my eyes and sees the secrets concealed there, I’ll be over. 

“I’ll text him,” I vow, fiddling with the rings upon my fingers anxiously. 

We leave it like that. I hug him goodbye, ruffle Milo’s fur, and drive home with my music playing much softer than I’d had it on the way here. I need time and space to think - to mull everything over. I can’t deny the truth in my father’s words. Henry and I had always been close as children; we’d just clicked. We were so similar. But people change, and I know that Meredith now is certainly not the same as Meredith back then. What if when we meet, years of lost time are struggled upon my lips? What if I don’t know how to reignite a fire that wasn’t even really ever a fire in the first place - barely an ember, actually. We’d only ever been friends. I’d never even considered us becoming more than that. My God, I think to myself, my father is really trying to orchestrate my love life to suit his ideals, isn’t he? Should I be appalled - or impressed?

When I get home, I try to distract myself in any way possible from thinking of the events of that afternoon. I do my laundry. I clean my bathroom. I do anything I can to keep my mind busy. When it eventually reaches that same old time of night when my eyes will barely stay open and groggily, I crawl into bed and reach for my phone, and with my last ounce of energy for that day, I copy and paste the number that Dad has texted to me and I message him - because if I don’t do it now, I’ll never do it, and I’ll never know. 

It’s simple enough. I don’t want to come on too strong. After all, we haven’t seen one another in so long. Everything has changed. 

As I press send, I allow myself to wonder why I’m actually  _ doing _ this - not a week ago, I was tangled up in the sheets of my boss, his skin pressed against mine, his hands curled comfortingly around the small of my waist, and we kissed and kissed until we both fell asleep in one another’s arms. 

That, I realise, is exactly why I’m texting Henry - because I need a distraction. I need somebody new. I desperately need to move on from the fact that Brendon can never and will never be my person, and the best way for me to do that is to find a new person to latch onto. Is that selfish? Probably. But do I care? Absolutely not.

Once the text has delivered, I switch my phone off and I turn off my light. I fall asleep straight away. 


	12. A Date With The Wrong Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL HELLO! Long time no see. 
> 
> I could spend the next two-hundred words apologising for not updating this for a while, but then that's just more stuff that you've got read before getting into the chapter. So I'll just simply say sorry. Sometimes life gets in the way. I've been working a lot, both at my part-time job and on university coursework, and those are things that I have to prioritise over fanfiction. I also hit a bit of a mental block with this story, but I think I'm getting myself out of that now. One of my New Year's Resolutions is to update on here a lot more regularly and just generally do more writing, so I hope that we can get this back on track. Does that sound good to you? Yeah? Perfect.
> 
> So yeah. Here's the long overdue Chapter Twelve, and hopefully Chapter Thirteen will follow along shortly. Thank you for all being so patient with this story and for sticking with me. I really appreciate it. 
> 
> All my love,   
> Olivia

It’s a few days before Henry texts me back, which is surprising, because my Dad had made it sound like he was incredibly eager to see me. He replies during the middle of a work day, as I’m filing some papers for Brendon in his office. When my phone pings, both of us look to it. I wait for him to make a gesture that it’s alright for me to answer it, which he does, and Henry’s slipped in some stupid inside joke from when we were children that forces me to bite back a smile.

“Something funny?” Brendon asks lightly, his features soft.

I shake my head. “It’s nothing.”

He shrugs it off. I’m glad that he doesn’t press, but that’s the way we’ve been recently. We don’t pry too much into one another’s lives. The phrase ‘purely professional’ is quite honestly what we live by - to the point of awkwardness. The night we spent together is always the elephant in the room. I can’t begin to imagine how many times a day I think of just saying ‘fuck it’ before slamming my lips against his.

With every day that passes, however, it gets a little bit easier. The air that we share in any room together becomes a little more breathable. Though I’d be lying if I said that when I looked at him, I didn’t feel that all too familiar tugging sensation in my chest, the one that only ever seemed to completely go away when I was sharing a bed with him.

Henry is absolutely the best distraction that I could find. We text like teenagers for about a week after his initial message, catching up on everything that we’ve missed out on in one another’s lives. When he subtly drops in the possibility of taking me out for a drink, I pause for a moment, my thumbs hovering hesitantly over the touch-screen keys, but then it dawns on me that this is exactly what I want and quite frankly, also exactly what I  _ need _ . So I punch in that yes, that would be lovely, and I ask him when and where.

I’m not surprised when he says he wants to take me to one of the swankiest bars in Manhattan. Even when we were children, Henry was always a bit of a show-off, but it was never to the point of arrogance. I hope that that hasn’t become the case as he’s journeyed into adulthood.

He asks me out on the Tuesday, and the date is set for that same Friday. I spend the next few days trying (and failing) to get it off of my mind. Will we both have changed too much? Or will we simply pick up exactly where we left off? There’s no way of telling. All I can do is wait it out, and I think that the anxiety that burns through my brain is noticeable, because on Thursday afternoon, Brendon finally comments on it.

“Mere,” he opens, and I look at him, my heart sinking whenever he calls me that. It always makes me feel much closer to him than I am allowed to be.

“What’s up with you?” he goes on to ask. “You’re not yourself.”

I cover up my nerves with a brave smile - a  _ confident _  smile - one that I know he won’t be able to see through. I’m a good actress when I want to be.

“I’m definitely myself. Who else would I be?” I offer him teasingly. He rolls his eyes at me. God, I’ve missed these sweet little interactions with him.

“You know what I mean, Bennett.”

Everytime he uses my false surname, I’m reminded that our entire relationship is fraught upon lies.

“I’m okay,” I tell him truthfully, because really, I am. “I’ve just had some things on my mind lately. But they’re not bad things. Just… things.”

He nods. He looks somewhat sad. Whenever this happens, all I want to do is wrap my arms around him and say stupid jokes until he’s laughing again. Man, what the fuck have I gotten myself into here?

When Friday evening comes, Henry arranges a ridiculously early meeting time, seeming to forget that not all of us have the privilege of working for our fathers right now and so can’t just leave work whenever we please. His insistence that we meet at 6:30 means that I have no choice but to get ready at work. Brendon leaves at 5, which is abnormally rare, especially for a Friday night. He tells me to have a good weekend and I tell him the same. My heart aches for him as I watch him walk towards the elevator.

Once he’s gone, I take the pleasure of getting myself ready in his office, slipping into the little black dress that I’d bought especially for the occasion. I sit upon the floor in front of his floor-to-ceiling mirror, cross-legged, my make-up by my side, and silently, I apply it, taking great care in my appearance tonight. The last time that Henry Beaumont saw me, I was about fourteen years old and hadn’t even learned what make-up was.

Slickly, I apply a red lip. That in itself is a double-edged sword. There’s something so alluring and timeless about a classic red lip. It’d definitely be something that he notices. But at the same time, hopefully, it’ll prevent him from moving in to kiss me, because right now, all I can think about is the way that Brendon’s lips move so expertly against my own, and even though we have never been and will never be a thing, kissing anybody else feels like some sort of betrayal.

When I feel like I’m ready, I tousle my hair with my fingertips and get up to leave. Just as I stand, Brendon’s office door swings open. I look up and he’s staring right at me.

I try to begin to explain myself, but he doesn’t give me the chance, just extends his hand to me and helps me to my feet.

We stare at one another for just a moment too long. “You look amazing,” he says, and I know that he genuinely means it and he’s not just saying it because he feels like that’s what he  _ should  _ say to any woman who looks like she’s going on a night out.

“Thank you,” I reply, and I smile a sad little smile that mirrors his own. We both know how hard this is, how wrong it all feels, but I’ve made my decision and he’s respecting it. I can’t be mad at him for doing exactly what I’ve asked him to do.

“I, uh… I just came to collect some paperwork that I forgot,” he says nervously, and that makes me laugh.

“It’s your office, Brendon. You don’t have to explain to me what you’re doing.”

He laughs too. “Yeah. That sounded pretty stupid now that I play it back.” He shakes his head and crosses over to his desk. “Where are you going?” His toneis lighthearted, like he’s genuinely curious.

I pause for a moment, stare down at my hands. “I have a date,” I admit softly. I kind of don’t want to look up and see his face. If he has that kicked puppy expression again, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop myself from kissing him.

He most definitely has that kicked puppy expression. “A date?” he says, raising his eyebrows. He smiles. He actually looks happy for me. God, this man is more precious than gold dust. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

I laugh and brush it off. “Oh, just an old family friend. It’s actually kinda funny - he was too nervous to ask me out himself so got his dad to talk to my dad and then he told me about it.” I shake my head, looking at the ground again. When I look up, Brendon folds some papers underneath his arm. He starts moving towards the door again. I think he’s going to leave again without saying anything else but he rests his hand upon the large oak door and sighs, turning back around to face me.

“Meredith,” he says gently, “any man who can’t ask you out to your face doesn’t deserve you. You’re an absolute gift. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

I can tell that that is most definitely not everything that he has to say about this, and if I let him, he would probably tell me everything that I want to hear from him, but I can’t let him do that, and he knows that I can’t let him do that, which is why he bites his tongue. His self-restraint is absolutely admirable.

“Stay safe. Text me if you need anything,” he offers, and it’s that simple offer of a friend there at the end of the phone that shows me that in a universe where we could work out, he would always be more than just a lover. He would be a best friend, a brother. He would be everything that I needed.

“Thank you,” I say again, even softer than the first time. “I’ll see you Monday morning.”

He looks at me once more and smiles. “See you Monday,” he replies, and then he goes, and I am left with the emptiest feeling deep within the pit of my stomach. I know in that moment that he is my person, and if I can never have him again, then that’s all on me and absolutely none of it is on him. I’m the one who got us into this God awful mess. I’m the one who gave myself a taste of the forbidden fruit. I have nobody to blame but myself.

As I take the elevator down to the lobby a few moments later. It’s not until I’m in the cab that I realise my altercation with Brendon now means that I’m running fifteen minutes late. Realising that this means I am going to make the worst first impression ever, I spend the rest of the journey trying to come up with excuses to explain my tardiness, but my mind keeps wandering and I arrive to the bar with absolutely nothing, because I used up the remainder of the cab ride fantasising about being tangled up in the sheets of another man.


End file.
